


Payoff

by Zaberwood



Category: Animamundi Dark Alchemist
Genre: Abuse, Alchemy, Alternate Canon, Blackmail, Crossdressing, Debt, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Faustian Bargain, M/M, Master/Servant, Opium, Prostitution, Ritual Sex, The Hell-Fire Club, Tragedy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaberwood/pseuds/Zaberwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deeply indebted and desperately struggling to cure his sister by whatever means possible, Georik Zaberisk seeks aid from an unexpected direction - for a price far more than the nominal value.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was first published... God, FIVE years ago. I have decided to polish it a bit, for this was my second attempt at fanfiction and it clearly shows.

In the dead of night, only the flicker of a single candle and the quiet ticking of the pendulum clock were keeping Georik Zaberisk company as he stayed awake, cooped up in his father's secret study, his head drooping over a dusty pile of medical books and research files. Running his gloved, bloodstained fingers over endless lines of Wolfgang's beautiful but illegible handwriting, the raven-haired royal physician sighed as he tried to decipher the results of his father's past experiments that only existed on tattered and moth-eaten pages now. The foul stench of rotting bodies and toxic chemicals was something he should have been accustomed to after years of medical practice, yet now it only seemed to intensify the splitting headache he had been struggling with ever since the blood transfusion in the morning. How pathetic, he thought, that he, a sturdy man roughly six feet tall, should feel so faint after such a routine procedure. Even if his body did manifest its dissatisfaction in such a disgraceful way, at least the man should have showed some perseverance for the sake of his beloved sister, Lillith, whose nightmarish screams of agony still echoed inside Georik's head as he feverishly studied the texts and illustrations laid before him, muttering to himself as his shaking hand grasped a glass nearby.

Empty. Seeing that there was not a single drop left of the brandy he had been swigging hastily throughout the night, Georik groaned in disappointment and pushed the glass aside. The bottle where the drink had originated from had long since been emptied as well, only to be washed and refilled with an amber-coloured liquid called Aqua Vita. Strangely enough, that was precisely the elixir that could make him feel better, an alchemic folk remedy that had been of so much help to his sister. Toying with the thought of taking a sip, Georik laughed dryly and shook his head, returning to his texts after laying a pensive look on his scalpels and needles that lay on a board covered with old newspapers, completely sterilized and waiting for the next operation. How many times had he attempted the surgery on Lillith now?

His telltale answer littered the floor lifeless, in the form of a dozen bodies with their heads cut off. It was a disgusting sight, a repugnant testimony to his failure and all the sins he had committed starting from that fateful night of the witch trial in Geutrink. Yet Georik knew there was no stopping him from these hideous acts, not until he could find a suitable body for Lillith to make her complete again. Frustrated by how Wolfgang's researches did not explain why Lillith's decapitated head would reject every single body attached to it, the young physician slammed shut the book, coughing from the dust that emerged from the pages. "Father, please forgive me for my deeds and show me the way", Georik whispered to the quietude, though neither clutching a rosary nor directing his words to the Almighty, rather hoping to be forgiven by his own father in flesh and blood who had once dedicated himself to helping the ill and lame… and who would probably curse his own son, were he to watch his misdeeds from up there.

A small clank emerged from behind the new, vividly coloured velvet curtains that Georik's dear friend, Count St. Germant, had recently hung there after disposing of the old, raggedy ones. Shooting a quick glance to the direction of the pendulum clock, Georik recalled how late it was, and peered through the curtains to see what on earth was happening under his window at such an unearthly hour. He had a good idea of who might have caused such an outrageous disturbance, and to both his relief and annoyance, a second look confirmed the correctness of his guess.

"You again", he groaned wearily, rather to himself than to the nightly intruder, who appeared to be a tall man skulking in the shadow of the garden fence, adeptly fiddling with a couple of pebbles as evidence of what had caused the noise. Precisely on time, though always succeeding in surprising me as always, Georik thought as his tired, bloodshot eyes entered into contact with a pair of narrow, sinisterly glinting eyes of the exact colour of Aqua Vita. It was truly ridiculous how only one angry look seemed to entirely light up the man's handsome, slightly angular face, framed by a tousled mass of crimson tendrils and a surprisingly well tended goatee. He sent Georik a mischievous grin, cocking his head and shrugging as to feign innocence until the raven-haired man gave him a reluctant nod of approval through the dusty glass.

After shooting a final glance to every direction to make sure no one would see them, Georik quietly sneaked out of the study, clutching a heavy set of keys in one hand and a candlestick in the other as he climbed down the stairs and arrived at the entrance of his mansion. Hoping that both his servant Timothy and his sister would not wake to such a nasty creak, he turned the key and opened the door, barely having time to realize that his invitee had already entered, swiftly as a bolt of lightning. Once again Francis Dashwood, not only a despicable species of black market villainy but also an accomplice, had graced him with his presence in the still of night, where law-abiding citizens slept peacefully to let the underworld revel in its dark deeds and desires…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly revised version.

Whereas it had been drizzling tamely throughout the night, a violent downpour announced itself with a baleful crack of thunder as Georik shut the door, carefully locking up before spinning on his heel to face his visitor. He shuddered reflexively as a humid breeze enveloped him, bonding the two confederates together with a shroud of silence as Georik promptly placed one slender finger on his lips. Trying to muster a severe glance from the murky depths of his blue eyes, he did not quite succeed in extinguishing the embers of excitement in those orbs of molten gold that mischievously watched him, squinting slightly, as Dashwood returned the gesture with a gleeful grin. Having silenced the redhead before any severe damage was caused; the raven-haired man took the lead to escort his guest downstairs, guided only by the dying flame of a candle stub. He could hear the gentle toll of the church bells, blithely unheard by those in sweet slumber, yet ironically reaching the ears of those consigned to the darkness.

The arrhythmic creaking of the steps behind him, added to the muddy, uneven footprints freshly staining the hall floor, confirmed his earlier observations – Dashwood was limping again. Puzzled, Georik immersed himself in thought, equally remembering the times the younger man had appeared at his door with a normal, stable, even cocky walk. Veiling his concern in stern glances at the red-haired man every time his heels clanked against the stairs, Georik managed to register the vital perception that didn't really add up: he was certain that last time, it had been the other leg on which Dashwood seemed unable to lay any weight. Either it was unforgivably bad acting or something external, the physician thought, deciding not to pay the issue another thought if the other man wouldn't bring it up himself.

His gaze wandered, passively looking at the walls, contouring the obscure shadows dancing over the ornate wallpapers; then returning back to the pitch-black corridor ahead of him. Sighing wearily, the young physician descended the last steps, turned left and proceeded to the end of the corridor, cursing silently as he felt hot candle wax dripping down the candlewick, staining his black gloves in white as his hands trembled slightly. How he hated to let this man past the threshold of the Zaberisk mansion, let alone enter Wolfgang's secret study to soil its already begrimed sacredness. It was an unbearable shame to see his father's study marred by rotting torsos and severed appendages, whereas his own room upstairs was but a little dusty and cluttered. Still, Georik found the secret study in the basement a safer place to perform his ghastly operations than his own chambers, for his servant Timothy had not been given keys to the basement. The young Zaberisk heir did not want the boy to sneak around when he was sound asleep himself… or, rather, cooped up in his research so deep even the dragon's cry couldn't wake him up. The only person who could possibly know or hear of the utterly dubious affairs conducted here was Lillith, locked up in the next room. As sad as he found it, Georik did not think that her head could have found out too much on its own; if only he and Dashwood kept quiet enough. And he would definitely see to it.

Georik shut the door, making sure curious eyes were not watching the two of them. He leaned against the door in an evasive way, with his arms crossed against his chest, and cleared his throat meaningfully. "Would you happen to have something for me?" he inquired, the usual sharpness of his tone cut away by fatigue and the dry feeling that had been tickling his throat for hours without anything to drink. He had not seen Dashwood carrying or dragging anything resembling a corpse; that he haphazardly threw into a reeking jute bag originally used for fodder. Considering the illegality and immorality of such actions, the man might have used his brain for once and hidden the merchandise in one of the rose bushes in the garden, Georik hoped. How mad Lillith would be at him, knowing that her beautiful flowers raised with love and care were used for such horrible purposes, Georik thought regretfully as he watched Dashwood bow slightly and flash a smile as he had finally acquired permission to speak.

"Oh, Master, I just love the way you cut to the chase. As you see, tonight I've come empty-handed," the redhead spoke, spreading his arms in a comical way as to emphasize the futility of his arrival. A wrinkle indicating annoyance and disappointment appeared between Georik's eyebrows, resembling the ever-aching scar on his left cheek. Much to the physician's dismay, Dashwood seemed to notice and enjoy it immensely.

"I'm terribly sorry, Master, but the Count's demands are my first priority," he sighed in an exaggerated manner, stepping up to grant his unfortunate debtor a mockingly consoling pat on the shoulder. As he heard the man's two silver bangles clanking quietly together, Georik shuddered, though not because of such an outrageous personal space invasion. It was rather something in Dashwood's face than in his warm hand that smoothed the puffy sleeve almost as if to sweep away the rudeness of such an act; it was like a stain of innocence in all his sinfulness, rendering him much less despicable or intimidating.

Yes. When close enough, Georik could see a dark, purplish circle around the younger man's right eye and over his cheekbone. The swelling had subsided some, but the physician could clearly see the injury was fairly recent. "Don't tell me you're pathetic enough not to dodge a blow in the eye," he groaned hoarsely, reaching out to feel the injured area with his fingertips. It was funny how he felt as if Dashwood had shuddered slightly, just like a wounded animal in stark contrast to his usual demeanour. A smooth change of subject saved the redhead from the embarrassment as he bluntly closed in on Georik.

"Master, your hands are ice. Won't you sit down in this fancy chair of yours and warm yourself up with this? You know I didn't come here to be examined." He whispered into Georik's ear, his lips intentionally brushing against the other man's earlobe, emitting a weak sound of disapproval from him. Trying to avoid the evil smirk that had spread like plague to those exalted amber eyes, Georik noticed that the 'this' Dashwood had meant was a flask of cheap-looking liquor the man was clutching. For a moment, he could almost smell a hint of potent rum floating around him like a tiny shower on a scorching summer day; the scent was replete with notes of smoke, a baffling union of both musty and musky notes.

"You fool. I am not one to fall for such a classic trick." His voice scornful, Georik shook his head at the man. He could by no means afford to let alcohol cloud his mind, thus letting Dashwood use his treachery for collecting Wolfgang's enormous debt that kept piling up. The thought of something to moisten his throat with was tempting, though.

"On the other hand, do pour me a glass. If I have to explain my lack of money with so many words, it will require sitting down and having an idle drink. I guess I have no choice." The physician sighed, pushing Dashwood away and hiding his face to gather his wandering thoughts. He could not understand why this man, an abject bootlicker of the eerily infamous Count Sandwich, sent shivers down his entire fatigued body, accompanied by needles that pierced his weary limbs and tortured mind.

"As you wish, Master; though one glass won't be enough," he heard his voice behind him, the tone more serious than ever, soon fading away under the rippling of a liquid being poured into a container. Dashwood twined his arm around him, holding a glass full to the rim. Georik took it and sank into one of the armchairs, crossing his legs and staring into the distance when Dashwood spoke in between avid gulps from the glass.

There was nothing he could hear without difficulty. The pain threatened to dissever his brain, clouding his senses in a way that could only belong to _him_.

"I have a proposition, Master." Those were the only words Georik could make out of the sudden distortion of reality, yet he was not sure whether they belonged to Dashwood or _him -_  Mephistopheles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly revised version.

The tempting proposition, only existing in the anonymous whisper resounding in the surface of Georik's drink, gave birth to the dark waves in his glass. The physician's hand shivered as if someone had touched him, yet he couldn't put down the glass; it would have been a sign of weakness he could not possess in front of Dashwood.

"What do you want now? You surely are not in league with him," he muttered to the ominous, infernal presence that seemed to concentrate around his aching head. The black halo bestowed upon him soon materialized into a horned silhouette hovering above his own, its ghastly claws almost brushing the noble arch of Georik's nose before plunging into the liquor, where they finally left their shadow form to create a whirlpool.

"'Tis true, Lord Georik. There is, however, a connection, which is why I advise thee to heed his proposal," Mephistopheles hinted in his whisper, his gravelly voice toying with Georik's wavering consciousness as the man struggled to dispel the demon all the more bound to him.

"Whatever do you mean?" the physician uttered, holding his head as if to keep it from breaking apart as he cast a reluctantly excruciated look at Dashwood's direction. A connection, he wondered, fragments of rumours he had heard pushing their way through his grey matter, surfacing in his consciousness. The secret society this man was bruited to belong to, could it be…?

_Crash._ The answer lay before him in a gruesome illusion that made him drop the glass. The face of the devil Georik had encountered seemed, for a moment, to meld into that of Dashwood, bringing forth the wickedness that had only raised its head in those coruscating eyes clearly affected by budding strabismus. So it was true, the physician gasped as the shards cut through the skin on his palm. A devil-worshipping secret society this man and his precious Count Sandwich hosted somewhere far away from the light of day.

"It can't be..." the raven-haired man muttered, struggling to regain his senses from the hold of Mephistopheles' illusion. Still, to think that the demon had claimed he was not the one behind Dashwood's actions…

The familiar smell of blood dispersed the last of the demonic apparitions in the room, and Georik panted heavily as his eyes re-established connection with the other man. "Careful there, Master. Are you all right?" the redhead asked without a remnant of the vicious presence Georik had perceived only the blink of an eye ago. Even though the taller man had never quite been an adept empath, he was almost sure he could sense a faint glimpse of worry in Dashwood's face as the man fidgeted in his seat, attempting to clean the mess the physician had made.

"Leave it. Instead, tell me the truth about the debt. No more lies, just exact dates and figures," Georik sighed in an irritated voice, giving the other man's ankle a tiny nudge with his boot to make him speak. There was his drink, glistening on the already stained planks amidst shards of glass, seasoned with stray drops of blood. It was unbearable how thirsty he still was.

Wincing, Dashwood uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between the two men. The movement made the silver chain on his neck swing slightly, its pendant leaving its sanctuary under the collar of Dashwood's shirt. Something silvery sparkled in the dim light; it was something Georik did not recall having seen. A pentacle, which was most suitable in confirming Mephistopheles' suggestion.

"Ouch. You're not going to like what I'm about to tell you. We're talking about, say," the dark messenger pondered, counting with his fingers in a mocking fashion, "80 million Zech and seven weeks. Quite a few coins there." After having made it perfectly clean how deep in trouble the physician was, Dashwood watched him in curiosity, drumming his fingers against the table as he waited for a reaction.

Georik emitted a dry, sceptical laugh, shaking his aching head. "This is a fraud. You're talking about an amount I couldn't gather in years! If that's all you came to tell me, be gone now!" he hissed, struggling not to raise his voice in the dead of night. Short of breath and woozy from the effort, he tried to stand up, but to no avail. He collapsed and sank back into the chair, gripping the armrests so tight his knuckles turned white.

There was nothing Georik could do. His monthly pay would neither suffice nor make it in time, and due to his experiments, he was running short of cash. All that, and he could still feel Mephistopheles lurking somewhere in the shadows, feasting on his misery. Shivering, he gathered the last of his poise and faced Dashwood. Somehow, it felt as if the distance between them had shrunk noticeably, for he could clearly feel the warmth the other man was radiating against his pallid face.

"I'm sorry, Master. This is my duty, however unpleasant it is. I don't want you to face the consequences of his wrath." The redhead spoke quietly, the flame in his eyes fading away as he looked askance at the other man. The dark mark under his eye stung Georik's eyes. "Of course, I don't require cold cash. There's nothing I couldn't sell forth at a decent price, if you know what I mean," Dashwood continued, his lips curving into a slight smile as the pace of his fingers drumming against the table sped up meaningfully.

Stroking his chin feverishly, Georik made a mental inventory of all their possessions, only to abandon that idea as well. The furniture was not worth that much and he couldn't possibly sell things he, Lillith and Timothy needed in everyday life. Then he thought of his late mother's luxurious jewellery and dresses, which would surely be of some value. Yet his heart ached when he realized how sad that would make Lillith. Those mementos were his promise that he would make her whole again, so that she could give a new life to her mother's most beautiful earrings and gowns. Shaking his head deep in thought, Georik moved on to his father's equipment and research material. Those were too risky to be passed on to someone else, and what was more, he needed them for himself.

So there was, after all, nothing he could sell. "That is out of question. All I have is myself and my research, however lacking it is," the physician finally sighed, turning his eyes on the table to avoid the other man's disturbing ogle. With one swift movement, Dashwood pushed his own glass over the table to Georik's side, giving him an encouraging nod. There was still some liquor left, and Georik did not hesitate to gulp it down at once.

"I personally don't doubt your abilities in the least, but I'm afraid Master won't be needing you just yet. So that leaves… your lovely self, as you say," the younger man spoke almost in whisper, raising his hand slightly to indulge in the silky feel of Georik's long, pitch-black strands of hair that perfectly complimented his noble, finely sculpted features. He curled one of them around his index finger, contently watching, waiting for an answer of any sort.

It was evident that Dashwood had well prepared himself for the reaction his ambiguous words caused in the other man. Flustered and in a state near uncontrollable ire, Georik grabbed his fist, forcefully wringing it to see a decent grimace on Dashwood's face. "Shut up, you filth! I refuse to even interpret such words from you!" he sizzed, his fingernails digging into the thin flesh under them as he stood up, violently pulling the other man with him. Yet he could not break the sizzling, sparkling eye contact established in a flash. There was something very fascinating about such an offer, however lowly and disgusting it seemed. A trade of two sins, lust and greed, both of them incarnated into stones paving the same road to perdition.

No, Georik panted under his breath, that was not his own reasoning. Mephistopheles was definitely there, pulling all strings to push him to the edge. Little by little, the physician loosened the painful grip around Dashwood's wrist, but not letting go entirely. "So it is a no, then? You wouldn't trade one night for, well, one tenth or so?" the redhead provoked, not the least bit intimidated by the taller man despite the pain he had grown very sensitive to. Chuckling at the sight of the most dumfounded face Georik could possibly pull, Dashwood placed his unoccupied hand on the raven-haired physician's chest, roaming the smooth, trembling surface, stopping at where he felt a heart beating under a veil of red silk and golden embroidery.

Contemplating for a while, almost wishing for Mephistopheles' thundering voice to argue with, Georik took both of the other man's hands in his own, delighted of the warmth they conveyed to his own icy fingers. "I require proof of this, Dashwood. I cannot trust a man to whom I will whore myself in hopes of incomprehensible amount of money. How will you get that sum for me?" he demanded, almost amused by the absurdity of this situation his miserable life had led him to. Somehow he felt a tingle of excitement take over his reasoning, rejoicing of the opportunity of such a dangerous escapade from monetary binds.

"Trust me, Master, I know what I'm doing," the redhead whispered in his ear, the pleasantly rough texture of his carmine curls and recently shaved cheek tickling against Georik's peach-smooth skin, the tip of his tongue ceaselessly tickling the physician's earlobe as he spoke. Unable to hold back an amused smile, Georik raised his eyebrow, grabbing Dashwood's chin to minimize the distance between the two of them.

"Alas, I will have to. If you fail, my sword will find its scabbard in your flesh," he threatened, idly thumbing the ridiculously well tended and trimmed little beard between his fingers, at times pulling a little to provoke a deliciously pained grin. Seeing how his accidentally ambiguous words were greeted by a mere naughty chuckle and a gaze full of thoughts best left unsaid, Georik felt Dashwood's arm snake around his chest, creeping up the back of his neck.

"Very much looking forward to it, Master. I take it we have a deal, no?" he confirmed, the tension between the two of them growing unbearable as he closed in on Georik with one decisive step.

Georik took a deep breath, his eyes drinking the strangely attractive sight before him. He let his gaze sweep his high cheekbones and those tiny reddish freckles he had never spotted before. All the time he had been stroking the smaller man's sharp chin and the trademark goatee. There was no reason for him to resist something so venial, so natural. No emotion included. "I accept," Georik declared, sinking into the depths of his dark crusade as Dashwood rose on his toes to seal the deal with a long, desperate kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly revised chapter.

For someone whom fate had driven into a dark spiral of the macabre and the disturbingly unnatural, it was evident that such a simple gesture would be no mystery. Yet Georik was more than a little perplexed by his own reaction; or, rather, the absence of one. The button-down and quick-witted man that he once was would undoubtedly have wasted no time in pushing away his lewd offender and driving a blade through his chest.

No, those were thoughts that neither his body nor the dark corners of his mind harboured any longer than for a blink of an eye. The warm, titillating sensation taking over his entire body was nowhere near such repulsion… and nothing at the moment could have been more worrying in the physician's half-open midnight eyes, whose bemused gaze followed the clear-cut arch of the other man's neck, from the glistening earring to the borderline between bare skin and the stiff collar. Hesitating a little, Georik let his fingers follow his eyes, his touch light as the butterfly he had met on the fateful day that had given birth to this nightmare of his.

A touch of moist velvet brought undeniable relief to his constantly dry mouth as he calmly parted his lips even further, daring to sample the bitter sweetness of the insidiously soft overture to the abyss of sin he had already plunged in headfirst. Blossoming from the stale traces of rum, the sugary yet intoxicatingly spicy flavour emitted a quiet sigh from Georik, instinctively driving him to giving access to the tip of the tongue that he oh-so-much had wanted to cut off. The very worst part of man was indeed his mouth… yet Dashwood's attempt to redeem himself made the young physician excruciatingly curious.

He shivered in sheer anticipation when the red-haired man buried his fingers into the coal-coloured mass of hair, gently tugging at the silky tendrils to support himself against Georik's statuesque frame. Breathless from the unexpected, yet only natural feeling of satisfaction that the fateful embrace provided him with, the Zaberisk heir closed his eyes from the world, his lips and tongue diffidently wrestling with the other man's. It was as if he had been caught off guard by one of the gentle gusts that once caressed his alabaster skin and waltzed around with those tenebrous locks in the summertime back in Geutrink. A fleeting moment to marvel at, one to envelop him into the evanescent warmth of the breeze that Dashwood incarnated; yet his well-built body pressing against Georik's felt so firm and constant that the taller man lost track of time under the strangely affectionate hands sliding along his back, fondling his hips before engaging in a doomed attempt of conquest over the uncharted territory below his waist.

In a flash, the summer breeze was gone, suffocated by the perpetual chill and gloom of Wolfgang's study as Dashwood, flinching like a frightened wolf cub, pulled away from the young count. Opening his eyes as if in disbelief, Georik soon returned to his previous state of mind and dignity, frowning at the sight of the man he had just kissed. "So you do realise I could have you killed for much less than this," he grumbled; his hands twitching like those of a lunatic as he, for the sake of his clean gloves, fought the urge to wipe the fresh memory off the corners of his mouth. The fact that it had been Dashwood himself to put an end to the surprisingly harnessed caresses was very off - yet so was Georik's own lack of his usually solid self-defence.

His stern, deep blue eyes posed a number of accusations and questions to the golden sunset in the younger man's momentarily reverent look; deluding what might have been fear and drawing forth the usual, perversely delighted expression followed by a low, secretive chuckle.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Master. As for you… oh, how long I've wanted to touch you like that," Dashwood whispered with almost comical devotion, his nimble fingers climbing up Georik's neck to gently wipe off the tenuous trace of saliva running down his chin. Georik couldn't help noticing how careful the other man was with his long fingernails; the physician himself might have easily scratched someone to the point of bleeding, had he placed vanity over practicality required in his job. Frustrated, he grabbed the redhead's arm, caught in the unbreakable binds tying his eyes to Dashwood's; even when the smaller man crossed his in pain from the grip. How sensitive his body seemed under the roguish exterior… it truly fascinated the raven-haired man.

"Tell me one thing, then. What held you back when you could have easily had your way with me?" Georik insisted, struggling to maintain his composure despite the headache making a splendid comeback. He was certain that Mephistopheles was still around, watching his torment and deriving his disturbed pleasure out of it. Dashwood, on the other hand, was naturally oblivious to this as he rested his palm on the young count's left cheek, rubbing his thumb along the length of the scar they were only vaguely familiar with. He cocked his head, the dying light of a nearby candle casting a tortuous play of the shadows on upon his complacence.

"Nay, I don't think so, Master." The word rolled on his tongue quietly, softly, with deadly affection; as if the sound itself had been proof enough for Dashwood's sudden withdrawal. His circular, feathery strokes slowly withered away as the man reopened his troublesome mouth. "It's just that an oral agreement, however, hmm, all-inclusive it might be, is never valid without witnesses. I reckon you wouldn't fancy any," he lamented with sheer mockery, his hand digging into his pocket, "so I brought this, too, just in case."

In his hand Georik could see a tattered piece of paper, folded so many times it was no bigger than the redhead's thumbnail. The physician furrowed his brow at the pathetic sight, picking up the excuse of a contract and unfolding it. "You're an utter fool," he grumbled, more to himself than to the other man; and strode to his father's desk to take a closer look at Dashwood's unbearably small handwriting in a better light. His reading glasses glistened in the flickering candlelight as he began reading quietly to himself, inclining himself to the low desk before him; all the while irritably conscious of the shadows behind him. As his lethargic gaze swept the terms and figures of the contract, Georik felt a mockingly consoling hand land on his shoulder, not moving an inch before his eyes reached the last words on the paper.

He had not understood a word. 'Acts of service' or 'consensus' meant nothing when millions of Zech were concerned. Not when Lillith's future was concerned. "So, what say you? It's not as nicely put as the contract before," the physician heard Dashwood say, "but you may keep it just in case." Without asking for permission, the redhead took one of the quills stored in an old brown vial of troche, giving the tip a couple of whirls in the ink bottle before signing the contract. In strange fascination, Georik watched the man's left hand as it twitched with the movements of the pen, accompanied by a quiet rustle. His father, Wolfgang, had been left-handed as well; such a rare feature that a mere two centuries ago, men had been burned alive for such witchcraft. Such as alchemy, the Zaberisk heir thought, his hand shaking when he took the quill from those beautiful, sneaky fingers adorned with sparkly silver rings no ordinary street rat would wear.

Dashwood's perfume wafted back into the raven-haired man's awareness, so did his warmth. "It's up to you, Master," the man cajoled, leaning over Georik's shoulder, cheek to cheek. His calm, steady breath was just as audible as the ink that kept dripping down from the tip of the quill. Eyes glazed over the candlelight drawing its last breath, Georik felt another presence draw nearer. It cast a constricting spell around his head and his windpipe, branding its wicked mark all over his chest as the physician gasped in sudden pain. The darkness engulfed him, making him one with the ink in which his signature now lay on the paper; stealing away his consciousness at the sight of Mephistopheles' open arms carrying him to his fall from grace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly revised chapter.

Resplendent, yet so dreadful, the scene right before Dashwood's eyes paralyzed him for a moment. Not sure what to do, the young man wallowed in the sight of Georik's blanched face; the black, tangled silk of his hair; his fatigued expression even when unconscious. Despite such an abased state, the young count was a paradigm of grandeur as he lay partly on the floor; his torso supported only by the debt collector's soon faltering arms.

A dry, barely audible 'Master' escaped from the redhead's lips as he grit his teeth, gathering all his strength to lift the physician on his arms. He had seen men fall in front of him countless times; some of them dying, most of them screaming in agony or muted by the pain, and he had but let them be. Yet when Georik Zaberisk had collapsed against the study, a quill still in his hand, it was not right. Not him; a dizzily tall, gorgeously intimidating nobleman in perfect health. Not Wolfgang's son.

Without any second thought, Dashwood carried Georik to the farthest corner of the room, laying him on top of something that he recalled being an examination table. As used as he was to complete darkness, he could not escape the fright that still crept inside him. Shivering, the redhead fumbled loose the ornate buttons of the physician's collar, sliding two fingers under the fabric to feel his pulse. There it was, so weak under the milky white coat of velvet skin as cold as ice. Master was definitely unwell; a saddening fact, albeit not one to void the revenant wants gnawing at Dashwood's heart and body.

"Can't have Master freezing to death, can we now?" His lips curled into a melancholy smile as he took Georik's right hand in his own, removed his glove and gently pressed his lips against the back of the physician's hand. He could feel Master's fingertips twitch against his own as the man sighed quietly, stirring but not coming to. How hurtful it was how those big, beautiful hands would touch him only when angered… or to fulfil the Hippocratic Oath.

"It's not fair, Master," the younger man sighed, cradling Georik's palm against his cheek; shuddering at the memory of those fingers feeling the distasteful black eye that still adorned his face. Oh, if he only could have Master to take a look at every single ache, cut and burn in his body… yet the ones in his mind prevented him from even asking.

No, there was no time to brood in the past. He had to help Master… or he would be in a trouble deeper than the usual lashes. Carefully, the younger man climbed onto the examination table, making sure it would support his weight before he straddled Georik's legs; all the while still holding his hand against his cheek. He could not help emitting a longing sigh as he let go of the physician's hand, busying himself with removing the luxurious red jacket that oh-so-chastely covered every single inch of Master's upper body. One button at a time, Dashwood exposed some more of that tempting skin and those immaculately sculpted muscles he had only imagined underneath the count's attire. Just a few more inches…

Georik seemed to respond, for he shuddered strongly in whatever world he was drifting. "Just a minute, Master, and I'll have you all warm and cozy again," the younger man whispered to his elder by what he thought was a few years as he gently freed those strong arms from the sleeves, laying him perfectly nude above the waist. Like a statue of the ancient times… oh, how beautiful Master was even in the dark!

Yet Dashwood convinced himself not to touch him just yet; following the count's noble example, he took off his own shirt as well, casting it away as hastily as if it was a dead rat. The chill night air of underground stone walls was a very familiar one, offering little comfort in the tingling heat in his body as he stayed still for one, two heartbeats; devouring Georik with eyes as full of gentleness as they were filled with budding, restrained passion. Master was cold, for pity's sake, and oh, would Dashwood warm him up with a pleasure far greater than a mere indulgence...

Slowly, smoothly, the redhead leaned forward, pressing his stomach and chest against Georik's in a rolling motion; his hands roaming the snow-white, icy-cold winter wonderland underneath them. Like icicles, Dashwood thought as he breathed impatiently in the hollow of that long, graceful neck and the nostalgically fragrant hair under it; he just  _had_  to give that skin a lick, even if it meant getting his tongue stuck in the treacherously fascinating translucence. Not that he would mind that in the least.

His fingertips fluttered past the physician's dark, already hard nipples; a crestfallen expression following on his face for not having been the one to create such an effect. Master flailed his head, gnarling, his pulse against Dashwood's cheek slowly returning to normal as his body absorbed the heat the human furnace on top of him was radiating. Dispatching his hands down the physician's sides to feel another needy areas, the redhead shivered as he felt his own nipples turn into a pair of sore pebbles as his chest seamlessly integrated with the other man's… Well, almost seamlessly: the delightful pressure was twofold, kudos to the piercing he still regarded as a precious memento of the days of his initiation as a man. Surely Master would not approve, Dashwood thought, smiling; painting an angry pout on Georik's incredibly soft and most delicious lips. Those disdainful, luscious lips just screamed for another foreboding kiss; just as much as the redhead's whole body ached for conscious caresses, gentle or rough, he did not care. All he wanted was those frighteningly large hands to unbuckle all of his decorative belts and relieve the pressure building up between his thighs…

Yes, the time was ripe for Sleeping Beauty to awaken. A delighted grin emerged from the thought of the noble Count Zaberisk coming to and remembering everything… oh, it was well worth the painful anticipation, Dashwood thought as he claimed Georik's mouth to another soul-searing kiss. Writhing in his solitary pleasure, the man could clearly feel Master's dormant potential against his own neglected half-mast; it was about time for Master to rise in arms, for his own sake, Dashwood thought, trapping Georik's lower lip between his teeth and gripping his shoulder to support himself in the storm that would follow sooner or later.

He was right. When he finally felt the physician's mouth respond to the warm caresses all along his body, he knew one thing. For his comeuppance, he would face a nobleman's sword, yet whether steel or flesh, it was Master's noble right to choose.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly revised chapter to hide the worst blemishes of this specimen of badly written smut.

Years of servitude under his true master had bitterly taught Dashwood the laws of crime and punishment. The memory of countless mishaps tingled on his burning skin, a vivid warning of where one wrong turn on his path would take him; yet his only regret was how cruelly a mere kiss deprived Master of his slumber. He could not help it; he was drawn to this jaded black swan like a moth to a flame, like a fly to a spider's web. Watching those midnight eyes unveil their brilliance, he made a solemn vow; one day, he would lay by his side, watching him sleep peacefully through the longest of mornings, free from this sordid maze.

Count Zaberisk was awake, blissfully unaware of how wickedly sensual he was as his tongue flicked across his rosy lips, yet to retrace the most intimate of affairs he had engaged in. His dazed, liquored breath tickled on the sensitive skin of the redhead's cheeks, warm and worth the painstaking while spent with a razor. It simply would not do to scrape the most sensitive of areas with stubble, Dashwood thought as his hands slithered up the physician's swan-like neck, cupping the face that surely demanded more than an explanation. How perverse that the tides of Master's defiant glare would only fan the flames within…

"Welcome back, Master. Passing out cold like that from mere paperwork… you really should take better care of this gorgeous body of yours, sir."

A suggestive smirk on his face, Dashwood traced the physician's neck with the tip of his tongue, savouring the decadent taste of roses laced with charnel notes. His lips chased down the forbidden fruit of Georik's soft white throat and enclosed it in a lush love bite, summoning a pleasured moan that vibrated under his mouth. Such a sublime body, and perhaps not fully uncharted… No, that would have to be confirmed; he would discover every last of Master's sensitive spots, mark them off and lay claim to them. One down, Dashwood thought, smiling; for something underneath stirred with life newfound.

A clash of topaz and sapphire sparked in the darkness as Dashwood lifted his head; a teasing peck stealing whatever wavered at the tip of Georik's tongue. Gasping, the physician sought support from the redhead's nape with one hand, delightfully hesitant to strangle the man whose manoeuvres brought unheard-of sensations upon his body. Little did Master know of his role in the debt collector's effete fantasies; those where blood red ecstasy superseded as the whip around the young man's neck grew tighter along with savage strokes much beneath…

The blushful memory throbbed painfully inside Dashwood's skin-tight slacks, yearning to take Count Zaberisk time and again until the physician would obsess over no other body than his own. Yet he would never settle for such outside the Club; not now that the familiar reek of blood was overcome by an ambition of his own, one for which he would risk the little he had.

His black fingernails raked gently over the young master's pounding chest, relishing every protruding rib covered in creamy satin. "Sorry about that, sir, but I can't have you waking up the kids. The boy wouldn't appreciate my efforts of catching and lifting you up to safety. Not to mention," he whispered insidiously, tweaking a nipple to hear the dulcet tones of a muffled yelp, "the fact that you so kindly accepted my offer."

His words rang a bell; the immaculate muscles in Master's body coiled sharply as the redhead pinned him down by one wrist just to be sure. Definitely not the idol one might mistake him for; Count Zaberisk was far from stone in his reactions, of which the younger man yearned to see more as his caresses advanced southwards to the marble relief of the man's abdomen.

Indeed he did; with every lick over heated skin, every sloppy kiss and suggestive dart of tongue into the delicious pit of Georik's navel. Like an invisible dagger, the physician's unbound hand latched on Dashwood's shoulder blade, an entreaty for fiercer caresses thrust through a heart scourged by unearthly desire – and the loathsome feeling of more than just carnal cravings.

"The thing is, I can't just prance out of here, leaving Master alone and unwell. That'd be a  _violation_ of terms, you see?"

Dashwood's rhetorical question was followed by a quiet click from the young count's belt buckle; then, he traced the silken trail of black, all the way down to where it disappeared underneath the physician's waistband. His lips curled ravenously as he clutched the promising rise between a pair of strong thighs and undid the first button of Georik's fly with a savage wrench.

How half-heartedly Master struggled to keep the blue blood in his veins from rushing from one head to another, only to succumb to the laws of nature encrypted inside even the most inexperienced… Dashwood would not have minded taking his sweet time in romancing his way to Master's heart by sweet words and devout caresses were it not for the delicious convenience of the situation. Count Zaberisk, he thought as he freed the physician's manhood from its unworthy prison; a nobleman like him should not be kept waiting like this.

"But I  _can_  make you feel better right now, and this part of you doesn't seem to mind."

Enthralled by the contrast of Master's graceful bearing and the erratic spasms of his hips, Dashwood licked his lips as he studied the contours of the darkening member, memorizing every vein and crease underneath his peregrine fingertips. His left hand tugged at the seat of Georik's pants, rolling the offensive fabric down to reveal the lovely gap in between his luscious buttocks.

The young count's breaths grew ragged along with the ruthless strokes upon his arousal; he writhed sweetly in the fierce cadence of lust, clawing the young man's scarlet mane to anchor him firmly between his bent knees, a primal reaction to reach even further in the depth of caress. So Georik Zaberisk was a hedonist deep behind his precious shell, driven by carnal needs even above those of knowledge he had pursued in the first place; Dashwood thought, shivering in glee as he licked the warm unfulfilment off his barely stained fingers.

Master's moans grazed falsetto and he jerked, his skin white and bedewed as summer lilies under the shadow of a slicked digit edging its way to and through to where nature did not intend it. For Dashwood, the feeling was just as maddening as he kneaded the unyielding heat, careful not to nick the tender insides with a long fingernail.

Both business and curiosity had made him pry into Count Zaberisk's private life, only to hear neither rumours of juicy trysts nor claims of such an exquisite client ever enjoying the delights of the red light district. Master was no shy maiden saving himself for the wedding night in silk sheets, that was a given; yet the inexperience was written all over his body, in his insides bereft of the memory of being taken and shown pleasure like no other. Nearly delirious from the dirty little observation, Dashwood licked along the taut inner thighs, upstream and downhill yet chastely refusing the taste he could only imagine. 

"Don't… stop it..."

It hardly mattered whether the virtual pause between Georik's hoarse, impassioned dissents bespoke pain or pleasure when the younger man reached a depth he aimed for - Dashwood had been taught to master both well enough to tell death gurgles and lustful pleas apart - in the rare occasions where the two parted ways. Once outside the sanguinary rules of the society, he did not want to hurt Master more than was necessary unless the man himself was so inclined. Such a prospect made him sigh in delight, even more so when he inserted another finger, fastidious in his conquest over the instinctive resistance. He wanted Count Zaberisk now, in the solace of darkness and silence – yet he hesitated before the temptation, the insidious allure of November ice.

A step back would be worth taking, if it meant seeing that ice break before him and not underneath. Teasingly, Dashwood performed his last rites deeper and deeper before slowly withdrawing. His hand was shaking in fervour, his ears burning in triumph with the force of Master's frustrated gasp; his eyes feasted the hapless, neglected member throbbing and turning dark as bloody nightfall.

"Very well, then. Your wish is my command." He felt like a beast surveying its prey as he stood up to feign his leave; nothing in this world came easily… and in this case, justly so.

" _I_ can wait till kingdom come, sir. I'm afraid the same can't be said about Count Sandwich… or your lovely little sister."

Perhaps that was unnecessary, the redhead though, sneering bitterly when the loathsome name marred the sweet castigation of his wait literally long as hell. If only Master Georik knew…!

"A man of honour always finishes what he has started. Not that a cowardly scum like you would know."

Those sudden, silent yet stringent words made Dashwood's body flare with self-satisfaction, the fruit of his licentious deliberation. Nothing less than he had expected, he thought, slowly turning around; this was the man he knew, always so prideful and inviolable in his dark domain from where the winter storm of his stare hailed through his pounding chest.

Count Zaberisk had sat up; legs sprawled over the table's edges as he deftly kicked off his blood red boots and dropped his slacks. Like the slap of a duelling glove, the proud act and the come-hither posture of no shame stained Dashwood's cheeks in passionate red as he studied Georik's battle stance. He could not help but feel the delight of pain in his bones as he imagined how much damage his very well endowed Master could do in his lust; why, he was sure Master's sword would reach all the way up to the very pit of his stomach, and the doctor that he was, Master would know every inch he hit like the back of his hand...

"Touché." Dashwood's grin grew beastlier with each step taken to Master; with each of the few buttons he undid to reveal his own weapon of choice needed to accept the challenge. His right hand shivered in ecstasy, brushing ebony locks off Master's ever wan cheeks as his right hand brought him and Master together below the waist; Master was unmistakably impatient, just as he was, and oh, lesser things had driven Dashwood mad with dread and lust. 

"Then, just for you, Master, I'll do my best to match a gentleman like you," he whispered to his beautiful black flower; stealing away his fragrant, intoxicating breath with a kiss forceful enough to push Master down. Their tongues danced together, a marriage of two pyrogens until the torrid embrace broke down when the redhead lifted up Georik's legs, squeezing them firmly against his sides. He would not miss this unearthly sight for the sake of something as trivial as his own comfort.

Count Zaberisk's heavy breathing sliced through the sulphurous air, his chest heaving mere inches away from Dashwood's. The violet mirrors of his soul glinted darkly, casting reflections of prurience veiled in amber as the smaller man caught him by the knees and hauled those tall legs over his shoulders. One wrong move and Dashwood would have those knees at his temples, crushing his skull; yet the prospect of such an end only made him twice as hard as he slipped one hand between him and Master to slick up what every second spent waiting dried and burned up

"Disappoint me and you're a dead man. " Master's voice was sedate and seductive – death instinct in flesh. His body craved for a swift release; yet no hand could race him to completion, or this benighted temple of love would collapse like the tortured herds in the Cathedral. Yes, Dashwood had a mind to gamble, to leave Master yearning for what only another man could give him. This deal was all he could do in his unspeakable affection; for in his world  _love_  equalled scarlet insanity, confined in lurid sepulchres and chambers of torture he vowed to protect this man from.

Blood raged in his ears, washing over Master's cracked wail as he thrust once, painfully deep for even himself, drawing a hiss of breathless gratification from him. A rapture of little parallel, shredding the last of his reason; it was beyond his understanding how something so excruciatingly tight and hot could make him crave for more, merely spurring him to plunge deeper, to the hilt.

Ineffable bliss waltzed in with each thrust, each grunt from his chewed lips; pain and that hypnotic voice never begging for mercy, never crying for more. Thus was Master's will, his absolute command that erupted in such honest, intense movements meeting Dashwood's own in their crude elegance. Flourishes of jet silk lashed down on Georik's comely body and leaden limbs convulsed, demon-ridden, in wavering arms that pulled him closer… deeper… faster… into a mad spiral of merciless assaults on that very treasured spot within that made Master's back arch and his limbs quiver, a precious parting gift of reason as it surrendered to pleasure and pleasure alone.

Master held out marvellously, yes; for Dashwood lost track of time in the melting hell of their carnal prosody, suffocating the adamantine demands in between. Master's perfect body weighed down on his bad leg; a gentle reminder of the lewd torment he could only imagine should Master ever return this favour to him. Georik Zaberisk was only one to strip away his mask of reason without blood and death, the iron maiden enclosing Dashwood's heart and body alike. His lover for the night, the prize of his inebriating hunt, his resurrection from the terrene void.

Master's back arched in dark majesty with an equine toss of his head, his high-strung grip of the table faltering under tremendous waves of pleasure that made his entire body go rigid in his lover's arms. Hot, voracious lips stole away his harrowing howl with a war cry of their own as Dashwood resigned his body to the death knells in the very pit of his stomach, joining his beloved Georik Zaberisk in the white-hot abyss of the ultimate pleasure and the slow, burning death of it.

Master's warm seed splattered all over the two men sprawled on the table, gnawing to the marrow as a scarlet overkill on the throes of climax. Pulling out in melancholy, breathless and gratified; the redhead lay on top of his lover, one of the living dead as he gazed into the unfathomable in Georik's eyes. All he could muster was a smile, one that wrung into a placid grin when Master dared to raise a chafed hand to a weary grip on his chin.

"Well. At least that kept you from flapping your filthy mouth for a while." Count Zaberisk spoke in a haughty tone, a tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth. His dark hair sparkled like obsidian, plastered on his temples and spreading in tentacles over the table; it was only half a shame that the liquid little pearls of white had reached all over the lengths of his hair.

"Why, the pleasure was all  _mine._  You were splendid, Master," Dashwood replied, chuckling as he lowered said filthy mouth on Georik's chest to lap up the stains of passion adorning the spent yet fairly recovering body he was finally privy to.

In the silence of his reverence, something eerie and chill wafted into his consciousness; a distant presence in this very room of the mansion, a third wheel in their secret hour. He could think of only one.

" _He is not the most friendly of children, but he is good."_ Those were the words of Wolfgang Zaberisk, the ones Dashwood had enclosed in his heart as a cherished memory of the father he never had.

Good indeed… too good to be true. His head buried against the physician's chest, Dashwood resolved to make sure his now silent Master was not dreaming now – or eternally like Wolfgang. For the highest good of all concerned, just as the silly little scrap of paper put it; he would take care of Master.

"Now, Master, won't you let me see your lovely backside as well?"

His eyes grieved to stray from Master's, the part he had first fallen for in him. He just could not let Master see his tears.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly revised chapter.

"You've got that look on your face again, Master. A penny for your thoughts?"

Warm fingers rustled fondly down the ebony Silk Road of Georik's disheveled hair, undoing the occasional knots and dipping into the hollow of his neck. What his eyes could not see pelted into his heart, a profuse overflow of all the remaining senses when the night blindfolded its own.

His skin still tingled, entangled in the comforting warmth of another man. It was indeed Dashwood who occupied the count's sparse thoughts; the tremendous earthquakes and thunderous heartbeats he had felt against and inside his own body, yes, but also the littlest of things that had haunted him since the young man's arrival.

"I will take a look at your leg. Stay there while I fetch a light."

A shiver crept up his spine as he tore himself away from the restful yet expectant embrace. The floor under his bare feet was pleasingly cold, whereas the menacing throb between his temples pleaded him to recline a while longer. Gritting his teeth, Georik put his inglorious feelings aside and stood up in one abrupt motion, the pain radiating all over his back so intense it was enlivening, even.

"Trust me, Master, my legs are all fine… though the one in the middle might need another checkup," he heard the redhead all but snickering behind him, obviously admiring the view as the physician bent down in search of his garments scattered all over the floor.

His boots and trousers were precisely where he had dropped them in his pride – or  _with_  it; quickly dressing himself from the waist down, he finished by enchaining his abused and exerted organ under a row of buttons. A lamentful sigh escaped from Dashwood, earning a ragged one from the count's dry lips in exchange. Something cold and firm yielded slightly under his boot, eliciting a crackle, yet he decisively paddled his way to the door and peered out.

The corridor, eerily similar to a catacomb in appearance, was empty; Lillith's door was soundly locked and the torch, left there for comfort in her desolation, was still burning. Yet the fire had turned spiritless, fading with the safeguard of night. It would not be long until Timothy's morning chores – ironically, Georik could only hope that this time, too, the boy would oversleep.

A quiet lament from the closing door ushered him back to the dismal realm of his late father. He did not even glance at the unfortunate youth whose severed arm – or, more likely, wrist – he had snapped underneath his boot; he was utterly captivated by the Vitruvian Man in flesh on his examination table, the reclining figure embraced in the dusky afterglow of past events.

Quirking an eyebrow, Dashwood chuckled in his beard, vexingly conscious of the image his bare body branded into the physician's retinas. He was leaning on his elbows, legs crossed up in the air; a perfectly calculated pose to reveal the subtle yet luscious curve of his buttocks… and those faint streaks, spreading across his back like the branches of a weeping willow.

A spell of revulsion churned in the pit of Georik's stomach, for it was no quest to identify the source of those various hues of scarlet recurrence. His fingers revered smooth, healed marks and nastier welts in turn as they climbed and descended the vertebral slopes, one at a time. As much as 'incorrigible' remained an apt description of the devilishly smirking redhead, the young count knew there was more to all such cruelty.

He succumbed to the brief indulgence of planting his ear on the man's back, sensing the tickle on warm skin as his dark locks pelted over it. He was greeted by the cymbal of a stable heartbeat, with no other distortion than the faint vibration of a pleased purr from deep within the other's throat.

"It beats for you, doesn't it, Master?"

With no intention of answering and even less expression on his face, Georik resumed his hand on its adopted duty, retracing his previous path and far exceeding it with a clinical yet devout feel of the callipygian ideal he could not deny. It was not often that he had the opportunity to study a live body this tastefully molded…

"Oh, Master, you're  _insatiable_. May I expect you to patch me up afterwards as well, then?" Dashwood chuckled, teasingly shifting his legs in response to the physician's veteran palpation.

Warmth returned to the young aristocrat's fingers from the forceful clamp of an invitingly quivering pair of thighs; whereas the heat, colorless and motionless, splashed across his cheeks with the young man's raunchy remark. Ignoring Dashwood's words, he resumed his pursuit until both tactual and visual perceptions made him stop.

His triumph of pinpointing the injury faded into a dull grey of aversion, yet one tinged with sadism so oddly becoming of him as of late. Right behind the young man's right knee, a plum-colored blotch of the size of a man's fist spread out under the physician's fingertips. This one, unlike the blatant record of a most likely ritual flagellation, was made with something hard and blunt, leaving two large but already scabbed cuts behind.

"See, I told you it's healed already. Otherwise, don't you think I would've asked Master to fuck me senseless and not the other way aro--- ouch!"

Georik's expression went sour as the injured area yielded slightly; no bones were broken, it seemed, but the muscle was obviously damaged from seemingly frequent yet irregular traumas. This bruise was far fresher than the one on his face and more severe as well, yet Dashwood would reveal nothing of its origins; he merely fidgeted under the physician's weight, an almost delighted wince on his face as he hissed in discomfort.

"Nothing is broken, but  _next time_  might not be so lucky. You'll have to avoid straining the muscle too much, or you'll risk a permanent disability."

Paying no heed to the rustle from the young man's direction, Georik ran his fingers over the assortment of bottles on a nearby shelf; without a glance at the labels, he picked a plain vial and brought it to light. It was an ordinary salve with aniseed oil, one that would heal the skin up in no time and act as a relaxant agent as well. That was all he could do for now… yet he could not exorcise the ghoul of incompetence gnawing at his healing hands.

"Are you confining me to bed, Master? And what will you do if I disobey?"

Dashwood had rolled onto his back, curiosity taking over the fluster from the physician's tacit questioning. A dark fingernail nestled between his lustfully curved lips as his teasing gaze lanced up at the raven-haired man. His beautifully toned muscles gleamed in the soft light as he slowly folded the injured leg over the good one; blocking Georik's view of the part that least seemed at rest in him, leaving only the dark red arrow of his as a dead giveaway.

Heat returned to prickle Georik's veins, throbbing at his very core as he drifted back into the sphere of another man… a magnetic one, pulling him closer until the warm diffusion of two sweet breaths caressed his refined features. He could feel Dashwood's chest rise and sink beneath him, gaining intensity as the physician's hand gravitated to the outlandish silver ring that bore an uncanny resemblance to the mansion's doorknocker.

On a stormy night like this, no one could hear a timid tap on soaked hardwood. A guest would pound the door with both fists and bang the knocker so hard as to tear it from its hinges; that was the urge taking over Georik as he traced his thumb over the ornaments, relishing the contrast of cold metal and a dusky, puckered nipple. So soft, yet so hard – how he wanted to see Dashwood's pain or rather the pleasure he so seemed to seek when the sensitive tissue would tear and bleed, the jewel freed from its sarcoid prison, a cry of passion stolen from the redhead's cherry lips so keen on spouting vile remarks…

"… Take this and your clothes as well. I'll be waiting at the main entrance."

The vial in his hand shook slightly as he passed it on to Dashwood, who sighed as if deeply offended from the physician's abrupt retreat. His throat was dry, his head groggy as he scuffled out of the room. A shadow soon followed in his footsteps down the stairs, a silent and warm embrace until a refreshing breeze broke the silence.

One, two, three… his steps heavy as funeral tolls, he stopped at the threshold, savouring every stray raindrop that splashed on his feverish skin despite the tall figure leaning on the doorframe, a barricade between him and the rain. Tears from the sky ran down the redhead's mussed locks in small rivulets, bedewing his glowing cheeks and gathering at the carmined tip of his chin as he splayed his hands on Georik's bare shoulders and sighed enthusiastically.

"I wish I could stay longer, dear Master, but I'm afraid duty calls the two of us." His warm touch dethawed into the physician's flesh, weightless; crepuscule laughing in the face of a looming dawn.

"You're forgetting something, aren't you?" Not that Georik would ever have thought the debt collector idiotic enough to assume the physician would have forgotten the true purpose of their encounter, however heedlessly the two had abandoned themselves into the throes of passion.

"Would I ever do anything of the sort? You see," Dashwood whispered in the other's ear, slipping a sober note on the tip of his tongue, "we need to advance carefully lest we should raise the Count's suspicions. Please give me some time… a week or two, I'd say, and I'll get what I need to pay off the first part of your debt."

He paused to lap up the bittersweet streamlets on the physician's neck, a secretive flicker in his glance. Privy to the direst of Georik's secrets, this man now held a redoubtable might over him. Perhaps it would be wise to kill him after all… yet Francis Dashwood was a cunning bastard whose demise would not hinder the truth from leaking.

"Don't worry, Master. I will make sure not to disappoint the one who so clearly showed me the definition of  _priceless_."

With that, he took Georik's hand and gently pressed it to his lips with a swift bow, his doused mane of the shade of mahogany in the palest of moonlights.

"As if one would believe that would ever be a part of your vocabulary. Good night." A smile graced Georik's lips with genuine amusement as he withdrew his hand, catching one last spark of the portentous fire in the debt collector's smirk before turning his back to the sleeping town.

"Sweet dreams, dear Master."

He did not look back; Dashwood would have already disappeared in the rain, bareheaded and scantily clad to surely lose himself into the depths of sickbed. Not that he had not been thoroughly drenched previously that night…

Having locked the door, Georik slumped onto the nearest fauteuil, jaded eyes narrowed to catch a glimpse of the horned shadow receding behind the grandfather clock.

"Did you enjoy the show, Mephistopheles?"

His answer was a cold, deep chuckle, fading away with the demonic presence as the clock struck five. In a few hours, he would be on his way to the palace, letting another day slip through his busy fingers that obeyed Bruno's every twisted whim. He ride back home with the sunset, perhaps drop by Despanie's place, only to end up back in square one.

_Time_ _, what a fearsome adversary to keep,_  Georik thought as he brushed away the dust covering a book he had unconsciously picked somewhere. It was long untouched, probably gone unnoticed by St. Germant after whom the rest of the mansion was speckless.

He stooped towards the lamp, tracing the gilded calligraphy on the cover; Dante's  _Divine Comedy_ , in whole.

Georik recalled the serene smile her mother used to wear when reading some of those cantos out loud before bedtime, painting the author's image of paradise with her tender voice and showing the intricate gravures to her beloved children.

Conveniently enough, she had only acquainted her son and daughter with Heaven, without a word on the hell on earth they had drifted into with no forewarning; even though  _Inferno_  alone felt as thick as  _Purgatorio_  and  _Paradiso_  together.

He pored through the pages, so vacantly that even the illustrations passed by him unnoticed, until a careless papercut stopped him at  _Canto XV_. Weariness spared him the sting, but the lines under a waxing moon of blood caught his attention.

" _O son," he said, "whoever of this herd_

_A moment stops, lies then a hundred years,_

_Nor fans himself when smiteth him the fire."_

A dry, short laugh spiced the tang of his own blood as he licked his cut fingertip and put down the  _Comedy_. The clock struck six.


	8. Chapter 8

This, Georik thought with an scornful look from behind his mask, had to be the worst of the ingenious Count Cassel's multitudinous ideas. He remembered with shame the brief brainstorming after the tournament, the inventor's cheeky suggestion and -- the worst of all -- his own acceptance. To sneak into the ball disguised as a woman, St. Germant's 'little friend', had seemed perfectly brilliant until Timothy, Lillith and St. Germant all bustling about him and stuffing him into a dress several sizes too small.

Here he was now, timidly drawn into the corner and surveying the situation playing in front of him. The ball was a gathering of the rich and mighty from Kamazene and other nations, thus the security was tight and most of the single men looming about were knights in their striking white uniforms. They were indeed a pain, yet with St. Germant's help, the physician had devised a plausible plan for retrieving the Chalice of Dawn from the treasury it had been locked in. If dressing in drag and putting up this grotesque show would get him the Chalice, it was a fairly small price. It was all for Lillith... and good grief, Georik had not seen her any happier in a long time than when she curled his hair into this abhorrent do and painted his face to resemble a circus clown.

Hundreds of powdered faces hiding behind an impressive variety of masks; from plain black like his own to the most imaginative and impressive creations, yet nothing more than otiose ornaments to justify another form of entertainment. It was truly beyond his comprehension why these gossipmongers held separate masquerades, even when those charmed simpers and flattery were deceiving enough. A piece of fabric or clay would hardly suffice to conceal a person's identity, whereas people like his father had managed to hide an entirely other life from their loved ones.

"Oh, Georik, don't look so glum! This is a ball, every girl's dream -- not a funeral!" St. Germant's voice tinkled brightly in his ear as he cupped the physician's cheek, all too eager in playing his part of the smitten sweetheart. He had just returned from paying his respects to fellow researchers and other figures Georik hardly knew; the physician was more than happy to remain a wallflower should someone recognize him even from behind thick layers of makeup and skirts. He was glad that his friend, a bit shy in these matters by nature, would not drag him around and introduce him to those acquaintances of his.

Reprimanding his companion with a playful thwack of his fan, Georik could not help a small, bitter smile. "What else can this girl be than glum if her sweetheart will not even dance with her?" he said dryly, having spurned various gentlemen already. He did not quite fathom how blind or stupid a man could be, mistaking him for a woman... though if it was proof of his plan working, the game was not lost yet. He was perfectly happy not having to dance with his childhood friend either; St. Germant was perhaps the clumsiest man on earth, and should he trip and fall, it would not look too good if his little lady friend had to carry him home.

There was an almost devilish sparkle in the Royal Engineer's eyes as he laughed, truly seeming to enjoy Georik's agony to a nearly sadistic degree. "Oh, what a cruel fate to fall for an oaf like me! Feel free to find another cavalier if you like, though I think it will soon be time," St. Germant said cryptically, offering his friend another glass of champagne and raising a silent toast to their brilliant crime to follow. Indeed, Georik had been sweating in the corner for quite some time already, and he would be perfectly happy with merely watching the masked crowds with his friend by his side.

As his eyes panned the ballroom, something caught his eyes. It was a man he had not seen before, yet there was something eerily familiar in him; a man surrounded by countless admirers, yet the tiniest bit apart from the mass of celebrants. Long aureate hair framed pale skin and flowed down the stranger's back, loosely tied to paint a striking contrast to his extravagant attire that perfectly matched the silk mask covering his eyes. Youthful and well-favoured for certain, he seemed a man of means, socializing with that blasé air exclusive to those of blue blood; yet what confirmed his identity was the man's companion, a familiar face Georik had trusted to meet in entirely other circumstances.

That unrighteously seraphic aristocrat was no doubt John Montague Sandwich, though he could not have been farther from the creepy creditor of rumour, many years senior to Georik's father. As for his dark-feathered carrier pigeon… well, the physician had to admit that Dashwood was nothing short of dashing in his immaculately tailored swallowtail. That particular shimmer of blue was shamelessly flattering to the debt collector's vivid coloration; he could easily outshine the wearisome flock of peacocks around him if he were to step out of his master's shadow to the splendour of a thousand chandeliers. Yet he would not be surprised should this nightbird turn into ashes in the bright light...

"St. Germant, do you know who that is?" Hiding behind his mask, Georik turned to his friend, who seemed blissfully occupied with the pastel petit fours on his saucer. Despite his timid nature and dedication to his work, St. Germant was a familiar figure in the high society, well-liked and up-to-date with its scandals; he was naïve, yes, yet he had delved deeper in the dark circles of the rich and the beautiful -- a place even the physician himself had been able to avoid. In an environment like this, his inventor friend was an easy target for casual inquiries about fellow aristocrats.

Or so Georik had thought, but earning a strange look from behind thick round glasses and a sad clown mask, he knew he had gotten his friend worried – and obviously reluctant to talk "You mean… Count Sandwich? I haven't met him personally, and some say I should count my blessings." The anxiety in St. Germant's face held certain that he had heard about the rumoured secret society; yet Georik could not bring himself to ask directly. The poor fellow had enough troubles of his own... they both did, and a shared burden, despite what they said, felt everything but lighter.

"Really, this is why I long for the countryside. Everyone seems to be getting their fair share of mud here. I am merely trying to learn who is who in order not to embarrass the Royal Engineer, am I not?" Chuckling, Georik hid his face behind his late mother's lacy fan. He had to try another approach, then, fighting the pangs of conscience ready to burst his corset. St. Germant, the sweetest person and the best friend one could possibly imagine, would do nothing less than talk if the physician feigned exorbitant interest in the notorious count... and the physician could only hope it would keep him out of the pickle he had brewed.

The young engineer's cheeks blushed at the frivolous remark and he laughed nervously, large caramel eyes hovering between the sweets and his friend. "Be careful then, Georik! I was already told to bring my new 'lady friend' to the next occasion," he said with a sheepish smile, lifting said lady's shoulder strap to its proper place with a trembling hand. So the  _beau monde_ harpies were on the loose; some obviously delighted with the sight of Count Cassel with a lady, others frowning upon the dalliances of one who had only recently lost his fiancée. All this, while certain underworld scum roamed free…

As justified as such misanthropy might have been, Georik had no intention of passing it onto his friend. For God's sake, St. Germant was his sister's betrothed, and it was his duty to see that the two still believed in what some thought was 'love' or 'pure' -- to see that the two would do their wedding waltz amidst the spring roses, whether 'Big Brother' was there to watch or not. "Too bad for you that I do not intend to make this a habit. This dress… I will have it washed and fitted for Lillith. For her, I'll bear with your fancies this time," he grumbled, ending the conversation with a theatrical lash of his fan. He could not help but smile at St. Germant's relieved sigh; soon the Royal Engineer had jam dripping down his fingers and cream bursting out of his mouth, and Georik used the opportunity to cast another surreptitious glance at the couple behind his pecuniary agony.

What he saw was... uncalled for, yet something he figured would not stand out much despite the exceptionally striking sight that the couple was. Count Sandwich did not seem too fascinated by the gentlemen in his company, but rather by his own right-hand man; he had inclined his head to Dashwood's pierced ear, a cascade of gold obscuring what was definitely more than just a careless whisper or rude remark about someone present. One hand was securely resting on the redhead's shoulder, another travelling down the small of his back as the count tilted his head, a twisted curl of his lips as he leaned closer to entertain himself.

Something dry twinged the physician's throat as a warning, yet he could not tear his eyes off Dashwood, who remained stock-still in his master's caresses. He could not believe those autumnal eyes could ever look so downcast and servile, a dying flame through a most fitting thief's mask, that expressive face so demurely emotionless with lips parted slightly to match the first signs of a most appetizing blush. It was not in Dashwood's hands to stop or spur the indecent display, and damnation, Georik was still watching; painfully conscious of the heat slowly roiling in his constricted chest and far below the last eyelets of his corset.

His name was called, softly and meekly from the void around him, and the physician regained his wits with a questioning glare at St. Germant, whose toffee-tinted eyes pierced right through him. He knew this look; it was the same urgent coupling of despair and determination he had grieved to encounter when the man had threatened to take his fiancée's head with him.

"Listen to me, Georik. I haven't told anyone yet, but the reason Sir Tauler was arrested… that man has his part in it."

It was but a few days ago that Georik had had even heard of the name of Joseph Tauler, a man incarcerated for his involvement in the dark arts. Channelling spirits, to be precise, and the physician could not quite grasp the connection between such humbug and the execrable things a man like Dashwood was involved in.

Earning a nod of encouragement from his companion, St. Germant lowered his voice even further and continued. "He is the leading man for a secret society that worships the Devil, the Hell-Fire Club. Many apply for membership, but only the wealthiest and the most reputable qualify. Sir Tauler wanted his name stricken out of the Blacklist, but he failed to find a backer for the initiation fee he had raised."

How stupid, Georik thought, not at all convinced. "That means they must be practicing something illegal themselves. So the society works like a double-edged sword, offering protection to outlaw alchemists and heretics while it risks their freedom? How do they get away with that?" he scoffed as he remembered what Dashwood had said about flies and hornets. King Hardland had clearly chosen to turn a blind eye, and the physician wondered whether the rumours of that despicable foreigner and his 'elixir of immortality' were his justification.

"Don't ask me, Georik. They say one who knows too much has two choices: to join the Club or be silenced… for good." The last word died on St. Germant's lips behind his hand shielding the whisper. It all made sense in a terrible way, and Georik was suddenly overcome by nausea as he relived that calamitous moment from nine years ago. His father's maimed corpse, disrobed and robbed of all possessions… could Count Sandwich have had him killed like a dog for what he knew?

Swallowing the dark lump of fear and anger in his throat, Georik quickly gathered his poker face and mustered a weary sigh. "If that is the case, I will steer clear of trouble until trouble finds me, no?" He could not think about it now; there was so much else to do. He would deal with Count Sandwich later...

As the orchestra stopped playing, the roiling applause galvanized him back into action. The changing of the guard would allow him the maximum of ten minutes to leave the great hall, slip into his black attire in the storeroom and head for the treasury to claim the chalice. Exchanging a sharp look and nod with St. Germant, Georik stood up and let his friend escort him out.

They walked arm in arm to the palace gates with short, skittish steps; embracing the brief blessing of a night breeze before pulling to the shadow of a large angel statue. The wings, Georik noticed as he stooped not to hit his head, were delapidating and grotesque to the point of looking almost alive in velvet twilight. For a moment, he stared at the lacklustre gem-eyes, certain that his tormentor was watching him yet again… but why  _him_  if there was an entire organization of satanic revelry to bask in?

How relieved he was to have St. Germant take his hands in his and give them a light, warming squeeze. "Are you sure you don't need me? Not that I would be much help, but just in case," the bespectacled nobleman said, his eyes so poignant with longing that Georik could not resist landing a teasing peck on his peachy cheek. It was an immense pain to deprive the Royal Engineer of the 'adventures' he had only read of, but from St. Germant's words, he knew that the man understood all too well. Nearly two decades of shared history did as much.

"I'll be all right, so worry not, my friend. Take a cab home and have a good night's sleep. I will send word with Timothy in the morning if things go smoothly," the physician said, lifting a finger to whisk off the heart-shaped smudge he had left.

"Good luck then, Georik. Do take care!" St. Germant was truly adorable in his honest fluster – so good, so innocent, and Georik prayed that he would never change. With that, Count Zaberisk scurried up the dark, cobbled backstreets after the fluttering hems of his own shadow.

Voices of celebration grew more distant as he navigated his way corner by corner, the train of his pearly-white dress forcibly gathered up in one fist. There was not a soul in sight, not even that of a street cat or a palace guard, and Georik did not mind at all. Should undesirables appear he was poorly armed – he brought his hand to his chest to feel the weight of the silver dagger between his, well, compensations – and his attire would turn any smooth clash into a bloody catastrophe.

He was almost there, past the askew lamppost, but that one wrong turn made him spin on his modest heels only to face two hulking figures blocking his way.

"My, are you lost, young lady? Wouldn't you like to have some fun with us?"

The sticky blend of wine, cologne and sweat assaulting Georik's nose was that from the royal ball – these masked men had been guests too, it seemed, yet the party was definitely over for the physician. He turned to run, but the violent tug on his skirt made him lose balance and totter against the grimy wall.

A bald man soon had him pinned him up on cold stone as his companion edged in with a lewd gleam upon his bibulous pig face. "Not so fast, sweetheart. You're the type to play games, aren't you? Just the way we like'em," the man growled on Georik's face, his breath reeking of alcohol and his sweaty hands made of iron around the physician's wrists. Georik's pulse was racing, his time running out and his vision blurring to seething shades of red when the men started unbuckling their belts. The unwashed masses of Geutrink, the miserly barkeep in Zaitenburg, these cockeyed fops - they were all the same, vulgar and plaguey; throwing themselves in his way to Lillith only to be crushed like insects. How bothersome to stain his mother's precious silks in blood, yet he had no option but to thrust his knee in the man's groin. He did not hear his howl, but struggled free to retrieve his dagger, raised it above his head and took a vicious swing.

A sudden, steely clench on his fist stopped that swing dead in midair, sending his thirsty stiletto clattering on the cobblestones. The blade flashed in screamless crimson and Georik froze, yet out of a power far greater than terror, as long fingers draped devotedly over his bare shoulders and held him still. He knew this bittersweet canon of honey and sulphur in the fragrant warmth around him – in those kindling eyes that captured his own through silver in dirt.

"Sorry, gents, but this one's mine. Bugger off now, will you?" Such nonchalant words eluded the physician completely; he could but  _feel_  them springing forth from Dashwood's lips and the wry smile they always bore, their tingling caress upon the back of his ear. His heart throbbed violently underneath the mass of fabric he had padded his bodice with, and he stifled a gasp at the redhead's arms tightening around his body as the man's warm breath broke in a whisper.

"Master, I'm afraid these will be some persistent fellows… Forgive me, sir, but you'll have to cooperate a bit now."

Flickering street lights whirled in Georik's eyes, petticoats in his feet, and the next thing he knew was Dashwood's impetuous hands swanning along the feminized shapes of his body, joined by the infalllible manifestation of their hips colliding. His touch all but reaching the critical zone underneath his skirts was electrifying enough; yet the long, sweltering strokes of the redhead's tongue down his neck rendered him into a blind, shivering mass in moulding. Georik bit his lip and pressed his head against the wall, heaving and melting against it, at a loss to hold back the insidious fire that had slowly been building within. Something in him still remembered where he was and what for - yet what mattered more was the other man's warmth and pulse he felt merging into his own, the pressure on his crotch a not-so-gentle reminder of that one night offered to an accomplice of his...

"Do you really think you can stay and watch, or are you just deaf? Piss off now! Or would you like Count Sandwich to find out some filthy upstarts were touching his property?"

Whether it was the uncharacteristically acrid tone, the ridiculous threat itself or Dashwood's hand that had slowly dug its way down the physician's carefully crafted cleavage, Georik snapped back instantly to the nightly reality on the alleyway. His slowly steadying breath vapourized in the cooled air, and he caught a glimpse of the two drunken men's faces through the small cloud he had made. What he saw in their eyes was nothing else than terror, pure and recognizable to the extent of his heart skipping a beat as they backed off and ran away like a pair of crippled dogs, mumbling curses under their breaths. If it was the mere name of Sandwich making such an effect... then what he had heard was only the top of the iceberg. What lay in the deep dark waters shone briefly in Dashwood's eyes, hostile and ablaze in turn, and the glint of the silver pentacle drawn forth from the depths of his attire.

The man was quick as always, from the emergence of his familiar grin to his weight shifting back to his own legs. "And now, Master, we're finally alone... This must be fate, don't you think?" he wondered, a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth as he licked his lips. Yet Dashwood had stopped; his hands rested still on the physician's hips, his gaze so intense and teasing that Georik swished his head to the side and spoke to the wall instead.

"You're terribly wrong if you think I owe you one for that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have more important things to attend." Why would he even feel the need to explain to a creature like Dashwood remained a mystery; the episode had taken enough of his precious time, and the treasury remained out of his sight. How ridiculous... Georik gathered the last of his poise and pushed the man away with little effort, then gathered his dress to break into a definite run. He could still make it before the next dance--

He should have known the redhead was a pest of no parallel; Dashwood was quicker again, and no longer contented himself with seizing a mere arm. "I wouldn't go there now, Master. Trust me," he whispered, his words devoid of the suave warmth they usually held. His entire body pressed into Georik's, rigid and trembling -- he was serious. A serious Dashwood meant trouble; it meant he was afraid, and that did not suit the silver-tongued rogue at all.

"It's the Chalice you're here for, isn't it? Why else would you have strived for victory in the tournament? Everyone knows who to blame in case the treasure is stolen -- they all saw your disappointment when you were rewarded with the jewel. So please, Master, take your steps carefully."

Georik froze, not in terror but in thought -- and ignominy of being incapable of such thinking himself. The man had a point, one that perhaps only the thousands of spectators were privy of; what would an aristocrat like himself possibly do with a mere trinket? He had no alibi; no one would take Timothy's word should he testify. Yet this was his only option, and already close to ruin. When had believing Dashwood brought him any good?

"I have no reason to believe you. Leave me!" He did not even bother looking what befell the man he so violently pushed away from him; the alley was still empty, and he did not have a second to waste. Cold sweat poured down his body as he broke into a run, never minding the hems of his skirts being trampled under his feet -- until another damned obstacle, clad in bright white, blocked his way.

A Royal Guard was on patrol, and upon catching the flustered Georik in his view, he raised his lamp and grabbed the hilt of his sword. "What was that ruckus? Is everything all right, young lady?" he shouted, marching closer. Georik thought of escaping; he could run back inside, but the guard would likely follow. Taking him on, on the other hand, was impossible in the physician's current state, for uniformed creatures were like ants; if you killed one, the killing would never end. He could not do that to his friend, captain Mikhail Ramphet.

Glancing back, he sought help, catching sight of his makeshift saviour who was already happily cast in his glorious role. "Oh, perfect timing, sir. My lady was rudely accosted by two men from the party while I was away. Look at her, the poor thing is terrified!" he reported, wrapping his arms protectively around Georik as he reached him.

Terrified, Georik was -- of Dashwood's disgusting words and his poor acting skills, but moreover, out of sheer fear of being discovered by the guard. No makeup could hide the scar on his cheek, and with the Captain constantly telling his men stories about a certain scar-faced monster working at the palace, Georik was known far and wide amongst the knights. He had no other option than to immerse himself in his mortifying role of a damsel in distress and hide his face in the crook of Dashwood's neck, much to the redhead's sensible delight.

"They went that way. I ask they be removed from the party immediately!" Dashwood's voice was demanding, that of a petulant child, and it somehow amused Georik in this tragicomic situation. Giving orders still did not suit a mere underling at all. Yet with a simpleton -- the category in which most of the palace guards fell, perhaps by influence of their captain -- it seemed to work, and to Georik's relief, the guard seemed to believe every word of the redhead's lousy lines.

"Aye. The Royal Guard thanks you for your vigilance, sir. Good evening, my lady." The guard bowed, then stomped to the direction Dashwood had pointed. Georik remained still, catching his breath in Dashwood's shadow until the light from the guard's torch had vanished completely. With a frustrated groan, he faced the younger man, his face grim and thirsting of revenge he had no chance of delivering now.

Dashwood's face was flushed, his attire slightly dusty from Georik's violent breakaway -- and he seemed all too comfortable between the wall and a seething mad Georik. "Well, that was close, right, Master? Now you'd better return to the party and act like a lady, don't you think? I can't have that Ripper guy splicing you up here, though I would love to see the look on his face when he finds that  _big_  surprise of yours!" he said, a lecherous glare and nudge at where Georik's corset ended and his skirts began. After what he had just have the physician go through, the indecent act did not evoke much more than vicarious embarrassment.

"I would not be quite surprised if the Ripper turned out to be you, Dashwood. That would explain the dead girls you kept bringing me. Most despicable." Of course Georik did not believe that in the least bit; it was evident that Dashwood did not have the guts to kill, not to mention the skills to neatly remove complex organs such as the uterus. Moreover, the corpses brought to the Zaberisk mansion had been intact, making Whistler the Ripper seem almost like a bloody rival to the underworld scum that Dashwood was.

A vicious laugh emerged from the accused man's lips, and he splayed his hands on Georik's shoulders with a sigh. "Ah, I am truly honoured, Master! Know what, though? I have a suggestion about that chalice of yours... and it is beyond despicable." His voice diminished to a sharp, deep whisper, and Georik found himself entrapped in the wicked smoulder of his eyes framed in black velvet. Him and Dashwood had already gone beyond despicable; what meaning did the word even hold anymore?

His time was up; the orchestra had started playing again, and there was no gap for him to reach the chalice unseen. He had to return inside and think again... the night  _was_  young, and he could very well wait for a couple of hours until the next opportunity. He could not return to St. Germant, though, for the man had already returned home -- he would have to find another escort should he wish to keep his cover.

Drastic times required drastic measures indeed... and the unpleasant solution stood before Georik's eyes, proffering his arm much like a beast from a children's fairytale. If a professional criminal had a suggestion, it was probably worth hearing. If not... at least he had many, many questions to ask -- and weighing matters to settle with this man, whom fate seemed all too keen to send his way.

"Shall we, my love?"

An ominous shudder coursed Georik's overdriven body as he took Dashwood's arm and relinquished him his tacit approval. Perhaps the splendour inside would strike less painfully with another child of the night by his side... and knowing Dashwood, he would surely waltz him to somewhere where even the royal chandeliers could not reach.


	9. Chapter 9

Nothing was new under the deadly, massive chandeliers of the Royal Palace; the show went on, and blending in with the crowd was easy – even with Dashwood tagging along. No one would look twice at the strange couple of no status; they moved like shadows, leisurely threading behind the dancing lords and ladies until a dour look and a grumpy tug from Georik told his escort that the spot was dark enough for words neither of them could afford to spill.

Offering the physician one of the two glasses he had picked from a passing waiter, Dashwood made himself all too comfortable between his companion and an impressive arrangement of lilies. The pure white flowers seemed almost unreal against his tawny skin and red hair, a set of colours in constant unrest depending on the light surrounding him; the physician was not entirely sure whether the man looked like trouble more in this lighting or a dimly lit doorway or alleyway.

"You certainly are ravishing tonight, Master Georik. It's no wonder all those men would have wanted your hand... in the very least." Dashwood heaved a sigh, a dreamy one ripening into a nasty groan while he snapped one of the flowers and held it against the count's sleeve for a heartbeat. Seeing how the colour matched, he then happily set the flower in his breast pocket and chanced a wink at the raven-haired man.

Twirling his glass in his gloved hand, Georik snorted his discontent and spread his fan to shield their faces from the crowd. Reading one's lips was an easy enough task for anyone doubting their identity. "First you will tell me why on earth you are here, of all places," he hissed, bringing his sharply articulating lips dangerously close to the other man's – realizing it a mistake soon enough. Despite the hint of proud suspicion in the eyes he kept staring at, he could feel the warmth of his smile even without seeing the curving motion that his every word seemed to ignite.

"Why, I got invited by my master… You shouldn't be jealous, Master, with that pretty boyfriend of yours and all. Yet what kind of a man leaves his sweetheart all alone here?" Dashwood threw a contemptuous glance across the ballroom, not so much looking for his bespectacled rival as watching the gilded façade spinning around his tenebrous vertex.

"Definitely not the kind your master seems to me, I assure you. How can I know this is not one of his plans to ruin me? " Indeed, he had not caught Count Sandwich in his sight after returning inside. Much to his wonder, several other esteemed guests seemed to have disappeared as well. Why would a high aristocrat leave the biggest event of the year, leaving his worthless pageboy behind... there was definitely something going on, and Georik could not shake off the thought of the secret society of the high and mighty – the Hell-Fire Club.

Surprisingly enough, his words seemed to neither impress nor intimidate Dashwood, who merely sneered at the question and took the doctor's hand so stealthily that withdrawing it became an impossibility in time. "You just have to trust me, Master, just as those poor villagers trusted you... The sooner you get your princess her body back, the sooner my lord gets his money. It's a win-win situation, see?" he whispered, relishing in every thorn of his words that pricked Georik's patience and made him jitter uncomfortably in his peculiar attire.

"Someone's watching us," he hissed, pursing his lips tightly to weave a tight silence upon the two. Perhaps it was just the illusion of the masquerade, eyes unseen all set on him and Dashwood; yet he was certain that someone had grown all too suspicious of the odd pair. His demanding gaze turned to the redhead, a promise of a reluctant conspiracy glistening in his eyes as they met their amber counterparts that seemed uncharacteristically in thought.

"Well then, may I have this dance, ma'am?" His voice regained that thespian timbre, his stealthy demeanour the poise befitting a man of rank as he bowed deep before his companion. Georik could not believe his ears – out of all men he knew and did not know, Dashwood certainly did not come off as the dancer. He would have laughed if such a thing was inherent in his nature; yet the younger man waited, proffering his hand while the orchestra finished a minuet and moved onto a languorous waltz. The air around him stood still, warmer by the fraction of a second, and the distressing thought of the other guests gasping their disapproval at the  _lady's_  misbehaviour brought his brow to immediate sweat. Now, if ever, he stuck out like a sore thumb; as he knew from his beloved little sister's nonsensical stories, a fine lady should never refuse a dance in such a situation.

With a caustic glare at his foul little chevalier, he reached out his hand and tugged back in a bitter protest as his gloved fingertips met Dashwood's firm grip. Face to face, sealed lips to hidden agendas, the two became one winding poison ivy on the far edge of the dance hall full of beautiful, venomous flowers and the hornets silently buzzing from one to another.

Flustered, Georik tried to keep an eye on his surroundings; yet he was drawn firmly into the arms of the younger man, unable to avoid the gilded rapture of his eyes. It was a vile habit of Dashwood's, to stare as if to the bottom of one's soul – a place the young count would not let anyone see and live after. The redhead was fortunate enough, for his eyes did seem unable to settle on one spot only; he was all too thrilled with the physician's unusual choice of attire, seizing every opportunity to have a feel or gander at various spots of it. Georik, on the other hand, was close enough to inhale the familiar, bittersweet scent emanating from the man's neck; close enough to feel the padding of his bodice skimming by his partner's chest in the rhythm of every swinging step.

Dashwood felt it as well; he bit his lower lip, subduing the grin that had already depraved his dazzling eyes and quirking brow. "You really thought of everything, Master. I'd be disappointed if I couldn't find bloomers and garters down there," he meowed under his breath, emphasizing his words with the slightest of caresses along his partner's exaggerated curves. His warmth permeated all the layers and stays of Georik's attire, reminding him of the humiliation that had taken place on the back street just a moment ago – and here he still was, waltzing with the fiend of whom he had not heard a word after that vile, one-sided covenant.

"I'd be even more disappointed if I found out you were using me for nothing. What happened to your part of our agreement?" he demanded, positive that it had been more than the promised two weeks since their hazed encounter in the mansion's basement. He had ceased his experiment with new bodies, yes, but had something like that ever stopped Dashwood before? He did not think so.

"Oh, Master didn't get my letter? How unfortunate." For a moment Georik considered Dashwood's surprise genuine, all the way to the raise of a red eyebrow and the brief silence that preceded. He did not remember any letter at all in the near past – not from anyone for that matter. Neither did he believe Dashwood would take the risk of communicating with him in such a manner, unless by a special courier. Either way, he demanded an explanation, something which he already knew utterly futile in the case of this man.

"Alas, the death rate always plummets towards summer; it's these mellow sunny days that make people pursue other activities than bloodshed and suicide. I'm sure Master knows what I'm talking about," he watched him whisper, the deliberate crack of lust in his voice sure to break the physician out in shivers. It hardly bespoke Dashwood's intelligence to attack a physician with a biological fact; as correct as he was, a learned man would not reduce man to bodily urges only. Resuming his default glare, Georik offered no other retort in exchange and merely made his point through a sharp surge of his heel on the redhead's shoe.

It was as if he himself caught a glimpse of that surprised, perverse exhilaration when Dashwood missed a step, all but colliding into his partner and grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, but worry not! I've already struck a few extra deals to make up for my miscalculations. Of course, the first part is promptly paid off. As for the next one... we'll have to be patient not to raise the Count's suspicion, don't we?" One mention of Count Sandwich's name, and the emotion evaporated from the redhead's lips into the air laden with perfume and arcana; smooth criminal or shady turncoat, Georik no longer knew what this played and to whom.

"I'm running low on time, Dashwood. I can't wait forever to suit your mood!" Georik snapped, momentarily losing control as the hand resting on the redhead's shoulder flew to a sharp tug at his black kerchief. Only then did he realize his blunder when the message reached its deviant recipient, lighting up the obscene pyre in the man's entranced gaze and turning his smirk into a morbid, full-teeth grin.

"My... was that an invitation?" the redhead inquired, his breath heavy and wavering with quiet laughter. Even with the near impossible lacing of his corset, Georik wondered how easily the redhead's arm reached around his waist to his hip, slowly stroking the sensitive area of bones barely covered by thin skin and even thinner fabric. The room around Dashwood was fleeting slowly in warm tones, yet the sounds of music and merriment were lost under the vagrant beat of the physician's heart as the rogue began to speak, his succulent Adam's apple in dire danger of being crushed by the trained hand of a murderer.

"My heart bleeds to say this, but I'm afraid I have other engagements for tonight. I trust you do as well... which is why you're still with me," Dashwood reminded tartly, fixing Georik's errant hand in place with a silken flourish. Once it lay on the man's shoulder again, the physician could not help noticing the perfect fit of his hand in the strange depression of the muscle. It made sense that Dashwood would carry his corpses on his right shoulder, left-handed that he was and thus able to do whatever a criminal might with his trained fingers to avoid getting caught. A particular demonstration of such dexterity, wrapped in the shroud of vivid memories, banged on the walls of his mind and jerked him back onto the charade of the dance floor.

"Then speak. I do need the Chalice tonight." His voice was low and quiet enough to rasp through his vocal chords, urgent enough to slightly soften that cruel delight of Dashwood's as the man captured him for a full turn in the monotonous waltz. He no longer felt his feet in the pendulous rhythm of the night; his senses were all gathered around and above his hips, constrained and tugged around, dangerously close to the pulsating heat of the redhead's gracefully moving body.

"Aye, all you need is to take your original plan and tie some loose ends to make it work." His hand followed the rhythm and song of his words, climbing up the physician's back and playing with the glossy runaway strands of his hair, curling them around his fingers. It was a feathery stranglehold, a candlelit gravity that kept the two men together despite their hands winding upwards in shudders. For all the foul words from his lips and unwanted touches, Dashwood had that something in him that kept the physician from even thinking of escaping. It was the same conclusion that always revolved in his mind, the one followed by things he drifted into in a desperate, passionate state of disarray – a malady taking over him in the most inopportune of times.

Such was the sudden, broken draw of breath that came more forceful than he could take. His vision grew dim as if from an insufficient dose of anaesthetic, his head throbbed heavily as if caged, and he knew this feeling well enough. With the pain battering between his temples, he could not hear Dashwood's words as he tore himself away from the man and tossed himself against the wall, sinking his head and inhaling the darkness to stay conscious.

"Stop! Just let me breathe," he hissed with the last of his lung capacity, each word sinking his chest deeper in the constraints of his laces. Had someone spiked his drink he would have detected the taste of any common or uncommon poison. Neither could it be Mephistopheles again, not at this hour and place; for a devil, he was a coward without ambition great enough to turn the royal ball into mayhem. He would not have this now, not with the Chalice in sight – when did he become so weak?

Weak, yes, yet fickle enough to shiver in unwelcome solace of Dashwood's intruding hand flitting across his back to rest on his shoulder. "It's the corset you're wearing, isn't it? That can turn nasty, you know… unless Master will let me do something about it," he heard him whisper; hot, dry words trickling down his moist neck, only to be swallowed back into the passionate abyss of a kiss speaking in tongues unfamiliar to the rapture of Pentecost. He endured, making no sound as he struggled to see the extent of the scene he was making. Yet he was invisible, in the shadow of champagne and celebration, in a blind spot where a pair of massive statues hid a small door in between. Hades and Persephone, if he remembered correctly; the smell he imagined emanating from that marble pomegranate keeping his lungs struggling.

It was a rich, bittersweet note he could almost swear playing somewhere in the midst of how the young man's scent danced around him, staying in a caress when the man himself withdrew, his fingers still firmly anchored to the tight knot at the base of Georik's spine. "We're getting you out of that thing and then... if you listen carefully, I might tell you how to reach that chalice without setting one foot outside the palace," Dashwood suggested, his words reverberating in the unnerving sound of a lock being tampered and the rustle of silk as the raven-haired man was inexorably ushered inside a room pleasantly dim and quiet.

His first thought was the sumptuous divan in front of him, its beckoning softness as he sank onto the velvet with a very ungraceful thud. The pressure upon his back uncoiled slightly as he lay down, resting his head against the armrest and drawing in deep yet still stinging breaths as the door closed in front of the man with whom he was now alone, secluded from the celebration.

Holding a glass of golden, sparkling wine in each hand, Dashwood emerged, that ominous aura unmistakable to even the dimmest. "Ah, alone at last, my lady. Now we're free to speak and breathe... and commit whatever exquisite pleasures the fine people cannot condone," he declared, in his ardent gaze a promise both firm and teasing.

Dashwood and his promises... was there only one kind of ending to those knots of barbed wire left untied?


	10. Chapter 10

It was a composition that pleased Georik Zaberisk little: languishing in the corner of the divan in a noblewoman's guise, scrutinized by a man in whose sickening company he was most likely doomed to spend the entire night, he felt too exhausted to commit the murder that might be necessary for him to get out of the locked salon in one piece and in all dignity.

Dashwood, on the other hand, looked nothing short of delighted in his little lordly make-believe. Without a hint of hurry, he draped himself in the lavish armchair next to his alleged master, offering him one of his glasses he had procured from who knows where and raising it in a toast. If merely for the sake of hydration, Georik complied, though cursorily sniffing the sparkly drink for poison as he accepted the glass and reluctantly drank to whatever the man had in mind.

From the way the debt collector's smouldering eyes remained on him despite all the extravaganza of the salon's furnishing – some of it making it perfectly clear that the room was originally meant for pleasures other than ladies' fancywork or gentlemen's card games – the physician knew that it was certainly not to his good health that he had toasted.

"I must admit, dear Master, that I do not know which intrigues me the most: to rest here and die gazing upon your beauty, or to jump your pretty bones right now." His interpretation proved right as Dashwood sighed in the agony of his tough decision, flicking his tongue to savour the stray drops of the precious wine and slowly running his finger along the rim of the glass, never straying from the former option even if his wicked language spoke of the latter.

"I thought you offered to help me with this, no to entertain yourself by either," Georik countered chilly, wearily lifting his hand to the fateful crossroad of his cleavage and the dagger still hidden in its depths. It was, from his part, a rather alarming remark: he remembered dropping his sole weapon in the confrontation, and he found no other explanation than Dashwood's presumptuous hands he bitterly lauded now, if only for the fact that a weapon engraved with the Zaberisk coat of arms would have been most grave evidence.

"Ah, where are my manners? At your service, then, Master," Dashwood crooned, the usual indecent glow about him boring through the older man as he brought himself closer to inspect his predicament. True, both Timothy and St. Germant had been a tad overenthusiastic to begin with - not to mention Lillith cheering in the back – and the two certainly had not held back when tightening the physician's laces, all to the debt collector's delight as his fingernails dug into the state-of-the-art knot.

"You must be a bit of a pervert, Master, squeezing into this thing. You really should have told me earlier if this is what turns you on..."

Turning his back to both Dashwood and his vulgar presumption, the physician braced himself against the backrest and downed one last splash of wine. The effervescent parting gift twirled on his tongue as those gloved fingertips stigmatized the bare skin of his back in their wake; the hands of a harpist, threading the cords of his corset in a silken harmony with the faraway melody. Each inch loosened tightened a different kind of cord for equivalent exchange; warmth diffused across his back and ribs, his tensing and trembling flesh, intense enough to penetrate his bones as his back arched in new freedom.

Dashwood held him still until the last inches were dealt with, until the end of his path that encircled the physician's waist and painstakingly secured the front of his dress for good measure. "There. I won't go any further or Master's assets will spill out," he whispered with warm breath, his hand crawling like a spider to tuck back the obtrusive rags peeking from the depths of Georik's neckline. To the physician's relief, his breath now ran more freely, his chest sinking and rising against Dashwood's gloved palms, the prickling in his sides a welcome sign of circulation returning to them.

Drawing back slightly with a happy sigh, seemingly proud of his handiwork, his self-satisfied saviour procured an expensive silver case from his breast pocket and opened it to reveal immaculately rolled twin cigars, foreign in their spicy fragrance. For reasons both irrational and inconceivable, Georik found himself tempted by the luxurious vice offered to him; the void in his lungs was now slowly filling, yet the overdose of suspense and sweets that had crawled to his empty stomach drove him to accept the welcome bitterness.

With a graceful, practiced flick of his wrist, Dashwood lit his own cigar and perched it snugly between his viciously curled lips. He inhaled – his immaculate musculature rippling slightly beneath his shirtfront with the motion - and Georik realized he had hold his own breath until the redhead's emerged in a slate blue, sinuous spiral into the specks of crystalline light peppered across the ceiling. He saw no libertine in Dashwood – no abandon to the abyss of pleasures men less observant would undertake to expand their universe – but a bird of prey, for the vicious slant of his eyes and the slow swoop towards the man he had just liberated.

"My  _lady_ ," he purred through teeth and tobacco, cupping Georik's chin to engage him in a deep, breathtaking kiss – one teased by absent lips, intense like never before from the sheer distance – and the physician was certain that it was the blaze of his gaze that set the head of his cigar aglow.

At the first sigh they shared, he felt relief and nostalgia; he recalled his father with his pipe, seated before the fireplace, immersed in one of his heavy books with a glass of home-distilled brandy as if the world he had crafted would never come to an end. That was Wolfgang Zaberisk before his one foul step into the abyss, and his son was securely following in his footsteps; rid of relief, Georik drew in another breath and let the delectable acridity dull his tingling senses.

Incredulous of the witching silence and distance that had fallen, the physician leaned back in his seat, stepping up to the challenge of Dashwood's blatant stare with one of his own. "Now, tell me of the ingenious plan of yours as promised," he demanded, emotionless, blue eyes completely indifferent to the all-consuming flame within the redhead's gaze as his eyebrows arched in mock surprise.

"For a man of nobility, you sure are terribly blunt, Master. Yet that's part of your charm," Dashwood chuckled; a sudden, bashful shake of his head to let those juicy red locks bounce and fall in the gentle light. A particular angle revealed the smallest of cuts along his jawline, a razorblade kiss marring his suave elegance. It brought Georik's mind back to his moments lost in the waltz; how Dashwood turned him and nearly flew him within the ornate passages of the music, all of it without a sign of that nasty limp he had sported upon their last encounter. It was more of a relief than his professional pride or dominating streak of character to see that at least something he did was right.

"There is a secret underground passageway in this floor that leads to the storeroom. Only a select few know of its existence, and for their own protection, no guards are assigned nearby. This ball is, after all, but a facade for the true merriment of the high and mighty." It was not until Dashwood's spindly fingers started to draw an imaginary map of the premises that Georik woke from his brief trance to take note of all those details he could not possibly have divulged to the redhead.  _It takes a thief to catch a thief_ , he reminded himself bitterly, already too estranged of the reality that drove him to not only steal a royal relic but also use it for banned arts.

After a small course of thought and a careful listen to Dashwood's profound explanation, he had to admit that the plan had high chances of succeeding. There was bound to be many secret passageways within the palace premises, dating from centuries ago when the first of Hardlands had claimed this fair land; as far as he knew, not many were in active use or even discovered. The scum who operated underground had probably brought most to ruin, but if this particular one was kept operable, he was willing to give it a try.

Yet there was a problem – the one where his accomplice certainly had it in him to rather see Count Zaberisk either dead or on all fours before him, if not both at once. "So I enter the passageway, walk through and emerge to the storeroom in the east end. And what if I never get through or run into intruders? Lift my skirts and beg?" said count asked, cursing the fact that he was not better prepared for either unwanted encounters or the lewd cheer Dashwood now delivered.

"Ah, please don't tempt me, Master... I would gladly help you there; alas, I have to leave before midnight or the charm will wear off," the redhead lamented, and the small signs that Georik had grown to distinguish betrayed that something was gnawing his good humour. There could only be one explanation, and the physician would no longer stand his silence.

"I know about the Hell-Fire Club, Dashwood. What vile deeds are those nobles involved in if they have to gather in secret? Answer me," he demanded, slamming both palms flat into the marble table and crushing the remainder of his cigar against the poor piece of furniture.

Dashwood, as always, was more amused than intimidated. "Ah, I guess the cat is out of the bag now. It's no wonder, however, considering your knack for some cloak-and-dagger activities yourself," he sighed, ignoring the ashes that fell from his grandiloquent shrug and continuing with no trace of the unease he had managed to leak.

"Well, to put it nicely for Master, ours is a club of gentlemen, and I am more than willing to recommend you should you wish to find out the truth behind the rumours." Crafty as always to elude the plain truth, he offered Georik a wicked grin instead as his fingers came to cradle the silver pendant coyly nestling in the hollow of his neck.

"And these  _gentlemen_  drain me out of every last Zech of my family? What reason do I have to believe that this is not another trap of theirs?" Since when had he excluded Dashwood from them, the despicable pit of disease that had brought his family to ruin? The thought made his stomach churn in disgust, yet he had no time to discuss the Hell-Fire Club where his own underground realm awaited for arts black and forbidden.

He waited for a reply, not so much angered as he was curious to hear the truth from the man whose perpetual smirk suddenly dropped dead. So he had made Dashwood uneasy after all; did the truth hurt him more than the man whose life it depended on?

"This is a private matter, Master. It is in my best interests that you see through with your plans to restore your sister's health and your father's fortune. I swore to help you through your troubles, and I do believe you agreed to my conditions in exchange." Eyes narrowing into slits and words gaining a sharp edge, the redhead spoke with heart-stopping gravity, reminding the physician of their mutual agreement with a firm caress up his thigh.

Yes, Georik had agreed, and he would never forget the urgency that took over his body with the smallest of touches. "One day I will find out what you are getting from this arrangement, what it is that a man like you cannot get elsewhere," he said bitterly; a few scattered heartbeats, a darkening shroud clouding those intense amber eyes beyond recognition, and Dashwood fell silent for but a while.

"What indeed... You are desperate, impatient and dead broke, Master Georik. I am neither, but I do think I have made a good investment in you." He smirked, proud and back in stride as he leaned in to close the final distance in between, resting one arm on the physician's shoulder while the other gently stroked his flushed cheek. He smelled of intoxicated indulgence, of the sweet purity in pleasure, and Georik found himself unable to deliver his retort about some equally tragic flaws of the debt collector.

"Now look at you, Master. Your lip rouge is running... right here." Dashwood's throaty whisper breezed by his chin, accompanied by a gentle fingertip over the physician's mouth. His silky touch fleeted over the contours of painted lips; teasing in the middle, culminating in an exaggerated swab at the corner. Magnetism or devilment, the redhead was at his favourite game, and Georik could not keep the dark tidal wave of his eyes from smothering the firestorm in the man's gaze; staining those white gloves in the remainder of his red was too serious an offense for him to take.

He could taste Dashwood's mirth and the slightest of surprises on his lips, indulgence laced with sweets and spirits as he initiated the compromise kiss. It was a strong, honest realization that he much preferred the redhead's mouth abusing his own than piling word after word to enrage a man who had slain a villageful out of whim. Yet Dashwood's tongue worked in equally guileful ways inside the other's mouth, slithering and laving while his lips made up in velvet touch for the delicious friction of his beard.

His tongue dared a peek underneath the man's upper lip, his teeth a nib at the bottom one, smearing two shades of red evidence behind as he devoured more of those lurid secrets and cheap lies sealed within. Behind closed doors he no longer served his king, medicine or the church; those were all beliefs crumbling underneath his feet while the shorter road of thorns beckoned to him so sweetly, to where he was already bound...

A thought, ominous and born of despair, darkened Georik's mind like a raincloud as Dashwood longingly broke the kiss. Had it been another night… he would have besought this man, damned be his name, to finish this prideful struggle in private, each probing kiss and every abandoned garment as proof of their iniquitous pact. It was the same simmering desire he saw reflected in the redhead's gaze, a promise without voice or answer; yet tonight no prayers would break the ties keeping the two apart.

"I'm afraid it's time, Master. If we act now, I can show you to the hidden door before I take my leave." Rising to his feet, Dashwood proffered his hand with a melancholy smile; by the time he had pulled the physician up with him and made his way to the side door of the salon, the determination of his eyes had surpassed any other emotion.

Following in his calculated footsteps with newfound vigour, Georik kept close to the high walls of the corridor as light and sound diminished with each corner turned and portrait passed. He made a mental note to later interrogate his companion on how he had learned to navigate within the palace he should have no business in, and another effort to memorize the route should something likely foil his suspiciously smooth plan.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself abruptly pulled into his companion's arms, snug in a dark corner where the lack of gilded furniture and the abundance of cobweb brought his attention to the cold draught winnowing the hems of his dress. He looked questioningly at the debt collector, who carefully made sure no one was around before he reluctantly unhanded him and knelt to inspect the dilapidated wallpaper. It was far too dark to see any seams that might betray a door, yet Dashwood's knowing hands were his eyes as they knocked and glided on the stone; he pressed his ear against the wall, unafraid of the dust and web that would cling to his expensive attire, completely absorbed in the moment of inspection.

For Georik, it was an equal moment of fascination to watch a creature of the dark so immersed in the moment, his manoeuvres so careful as if the stone beneath was a human being – as if it was  _him_  – until that disgustingly smug smirk emerged with a sound of satisfaction, subdued under the loud creaking that tore the wall apart, revealing a pitch black opening that felt eerily ready to suck the physician straight into the bowels and nowhere near his destination.

Dashwood, however, chuckled at the disbeliever as he rose to his feet, dusted his knees and passed the newly appeared threshold to raise a beckoning arm. "Found it. Once you are in and I am out of sight, remember to close the door, right here," he explained, running his palm up the wall until something underneath snapped and held him still.

"I will. And I will also remember to see if you value your life enough to speak the truth." Watching his one last warning draw a warm chuckle from the redhead, Georik firmly placed his hand over Dashwood's, not so much to relish his delectable warmth as to make sure there actually was a trigger to close the door from within.

"Ah, please, you can thank me later then... in private. Godspeed, my lady." Raising his free hand in a most irreverent salute, Dashwood bowed slightly, sweeping the physician's engaged hand up to his lips for a quick parting kiss. One last look, portentous and deep enough to strip Georik of any hesitation, and he was gone; so the physician consigned his fate to the darkness, the very colour of his own existence that still had only one purpose.

* * *

 

When he finally returned home with the chalice, soaked from the sudden downpour blessing him on his way back, he was greeted by an anxious Timothy, who looked as if the entire mansion was on fire. "Did you get it?" the boy demanded, arms akimbo and clearly not taking another 'no' as an answer as he let the Black Tulip in.

Offering but a condescending glare and a flourish of his black cape, Georik withdrew the Chalice and held it out for the boy's widening eyes and delighted inspection. For a relic made of gold and gems, it was strangely small and light to carry; it had been no feat for the physician to slip the alchemical artefact into his sleeve and run away with it unseen. The rush of adrenaline without the imminent threat of getting caught in unfavourable circumstances and restraining garments had certainly done him more good than anything in the past onerous weeks.

Turning and weighing the golden cup in his small hands, Timothy finally nodded his careful approval. "This had better work, or you're in big trouble for nothing!" he chided, though, reminding his master bitterly of how much of a motherly figure the boy had become after being entrusted the care of his household.

"Put the athanor on and look for the ingredients while I change. Try not to wake up Lillith, for she would be too delighted to hear of my ordeals," Georik said dryly, helping himself to a handkerchief from Timothy's pocket to clean his face of the pasty remains of makeup. The boy nodded hastily, scuttling his way with such excitement that Georik feared for the precious goblet. Just not yet... he needed a moment of ease to collect himself while the athanor was warming up.

Great relief washed over him after the brief ascent upstairs as he finally locked himself in his bedchamber, letting his heavy luggage hit the floor. It was so quiet save for his weary breath, one that reminded him that he was still alive after all past ordeals – things he could never have dreamed up were it not for the dire necessity to bring his sister back to life. He was, in essence, a man of oath, one to save lives – and it was Lillith's for which he had crossed the boundaries of all things imaginable.

As his wet cape and mask fell off, he lifted his head to gaze numbly at the haggard being in the looking-glass. Faint smudges of white and black still peppered his face, though not sparing him of the dark circles below his eyes, and the last crimps in his hair stuck from his head like charred matter of a bird's nest. Despite the wet chill of his flight and the perpetual cold of the mansion, he was breaking out in a sweat, the fever of survival throbbing within his chest and unsteadying his hands. He had never seen himself so infirm, a beast too famished to feed, marked by a dark bruise on his neck that suited his plagued being better than what had originally caused the mark his hand now subconsciously came to touch.

His cold fingers summoned back the one true plague, Dashwood, the surreal act he had but sat through, intoxicated and infected. The prelude of scarlet bristles scraping and trailing down his neck to those feral kisses, those rough knuckles so forcefully reined in to revere his bare shoulders and arms; everything he did burned his skin like steam, marked his path by the familiar fragrance of sweet sin and rich risk, driving him crying for more...

The villain was smiling, his predatory teeth so gently gracing the contours of his chest, the ghostlike circles drawn across his inner arms making his hair stand in end. He could but laugh bitterly at the philosophers and physicians of ancient times who had claimed that a man's strength resided in the belly; for his was escaping through reflexive thrusts and pleas from the feeblest of touches, teasing laps of tongue and near violent bites downhill until Dashwood reached the turbulent border of want and need.

The man fell silent as the dead, his hunger devouring the physician's dire need and rendering it to painfully thrashing ecstasy. It was passion briefly greeted elsewhere, flickering burns and sensations fleshing out – the misplaced memory of that incomparable mouth, reined in between his legs, pleasing him in a way only a man like Dashwood would submit to.

_Well, I don't call you Master for nothing, do I?_

"We're ready, Georik! Are you coming or not? "

His eyes shot wide open at the dread distortion of the voice inside his head, and the truth hit him late. Breath and words halted in his throat, pierced by the shard of awareness that Timothy's choice of words pulled forth. The homunculus... With a clatter, Georik reached out to the nightstand, strangling his perspiring urgency with a hand as the other caught an empty beaker. Necessity and invention in his desperate grasp, he returned to his interrupted fantasy like a weary crusader, the graphic contents of Dashwood's whispers in his ear until they dissipated completely under a sea of baser sounds.

_Doing this to save a life, are you, Master? Show me how much she means to you, and I'll gladly be your means to an end..._

As death, pain and pleasure converged, distorted from his own touch and mind, Georik Zaberisk collapsed against the mirror with a strangled howl, his arm crushed against the wood to keep his heavy glass from shattering.

His breath never quite returned to him, neither did the course of what he had just imagined as he unhanded his spent manhood. He shivered, carefully avoiding the tainted reflection above the basin as he sank his hands into lukewarm water. The amount he had collected was certainly enough, perhaps for more than one homunculus; creating multiple embryos was a very, well, conceivable alternative should experiments with the first one go terribly awry. Nothing could stop him now; no man, no demon would keep him from his endeavour.

As the faintness returned to his limbs, he braced himself against the desk and inhaled deep, staring numbly at the stain of himself in the measuring glass. It was not until then that he noticed the pile of envelopes that had stood untouched for God knows how many days, if not weeks; recalling Dashwood's words at the ball, he thumbed through the less urgent letters until he found what he had first taken as but a hasty lie.

It was a small envelope, with a hurriedly slanted  _Count G. Zaberisk_  scribbled across the right corner, the seal plain to hide the identity of the sender. He recognized Dashwood's handwriting with ease and ripped the envelope open; yet inside, he found a small slip of paper, tied around an impeccably folded document whose thickness proved to be due to another seal placed within. Knitting his brow, Georik unfolded the document and halted in recognition of the emblem in the seal; it was the same ostentatious heraldry he had seen before, carved inside the silver timepiece his father used to treasure.

Bringing the letter in better light, the physician glanced briefly at the sea eagle and merman, then at the words inscribed in Latin.  _Post tot naufragia portum_  – after so many shipwrecks, a haven, he translated and inferred it to be more of an allegory than a glorified account of the alleged perils the house of Sandwich might have encountered on the high seas they had long since estranged from.

Wary of whatever the letter might hold, he proceeded to read, clutching desperately at his chest as the words made sense to him. It was an official receipt of an instalment of millions of Zech, the colossal amount outstanding promisingly shrunken from what it had been before Dashwood's interference. He knew not if the document he was holding was a fraud; yet signed by both Count Sandwich and Dashwood, it was sealed from the inside as if not meant for elsewhere than the count's own bookkeeping. So the matter was not dealt with inside the Hell-Fire Club, but by the count personally – and to think that the debt collector had risked sending this document that was never ever meant for the poor debtor's eyes?

"What's taking you so long? Need some help with  _it_?" Timothy's cheeky call tore him back to the matter at hand, so to speak, and he put down the letter and solemnly swore to eviscerate his young assistant for his lip once he was done with the homunculus.

It was another equally elusive promise he made to read Dashwood's own little message later; yet by the time life floated before his eyes, alive and translucent, of his own creation, he had already forgotten.


	11. Chapter 11

Depravity, in its every perceivable form, loomed upon Count Zaberisk with each stride on the mud-smeared cobblestones that led through the wrong side of the southern district. Tightly grasping his cape to ward off beggars tugging on and filth sticking to it, he trampled the streets; scanning his surroundings from the shadowing brim of his hat, careful not to make his quest seem like sightseeing.

He would have happily kept his distance from these scum were it not for his detestable superior trusting him with the research on opiates. Never one to rely on books only, Bruno Glening had not-so discreetly tipped him off about a spot or two on the shadier side of the town where more information could be 'collected', as he had whispered with a perceptive sneer. Had the king told Georik that he was to become an assistant to a madman who did not want to sully his swarthy hands in illegalities, the young count would never have agreed despite the tempting pay.

Yet here he was, a dark shadow moving amidst moaning whores and emaciated stray cats, and with every stride taken deeper into the underworld, he liked to believe it was for Lillith's sake. Already too deeply absorbed in the fathomless world of alchemy and the nurturing of his very own homunculus, Georik knew he would have to sacrifice all his time to restore his little sister to her former beauty; after completing his gargantuan research on poisons, the physician would resign, whatever Dr. Glening's reaction. By that time, he would not care at all – least for his wretched soul bound in devil blood.

Amidst all the red lanterns in his sight, there was a green one; foreign in its plainness, yet embellished with a golden dragon. It swayed slightly above a run-down cellar door, emitting a soft light to make up for the darkened windows. Strangely enough, the alley had gone empty without Georik even noticing; it was the twinge of ominous curiosity that could lead the physician nowhere else than down the creaking steps to the door.

A thin, nebular ribbon of smoke wreathed around Count Zaberisk upon entering the dim room. Despite the vividly coloured oriental tapestry shielding him from the dilapidated stone walls, it felt strangely like home, he thought; listening to his own breath as the delicate sound of a wind chime welcomed him. Such a sweetish, pungent scent – an impeccable identification of an opium smoker, as the pages of the medical encyclopaedia branded into his memory so lauded. An addictive, almost arcane scent he could taste on his tongue; he could not quite grasp the fleeting familiarity in it when the clacking of wooden shoes snapped him back to the darkness.

Georik did not know who was more surprised at the sight of the other, him or Gennai Hiraga, the owner of the oriental curio shop he had only recently found. Certainly, many of the precious substances and foreign items sold in the Jewelled Den were at least questionable in Hardland, but to think the man would directly engage such blatant outlawry... Well, the physician really was one to talk – and Gennai did not seem that stupid either.

Quick to mask his astonishment into a welcoming smile, Gennai clasped his hands together and bowed slightly, his pipe held tightly between his lips. "Welcome, welcome, Master Georik! How I being of services tonight?" he asked rather cheerily in his peculiar accent, yet his eyes told the physician that the question was needless. No one ever stumbled upon the dragon's den by accident, and in the rare occasion they did, they would certainly be silenced in a way or another.

The last pages in Georik's book had proved truth much stranger than fiction, yet he found himself incapable of lying in the face of a man to whom he still held a decent face, and spoke, "Good evening. As a matter of fact, I have been assigned the compilation of an encyclopaedia of poisons, and came to find opiates for my research." He paused to gauge the other's reaction, one which was but the rise of an eyebrow and a sharp look – incredulous and in need of details. He did not want to come off as a royal inspector, no, but perhaps he did have to resort to his official badge and the written orders entrusted to him by the Royal Physician senior. That little red badge seemed to hold a magical power over the palace officials all around the city, and as much as it disgusted him, he pulled forth the little medallion and held it out for Gennai's inspection.

"I come by permission of the Chief Medical Officer, my superior Bruno Glening. This matter is strictly confidential, for even the king does not know of our research," he said in a grave tone, yet relieved as he gazed into the foreigner's chocolate brown eyes. He could see that the wariness was mutual; Gennai had no doubt been already facing the strict law and custom of Hardland, one which allowed little liberties to foreign curiosities. The physician's only hope was that the rebellious aristocracy flocking into secret societies and salons dealing with the dark arts – from women's circles for crafting love potions to the unspeakably ill-reputed Hell-Fire Club – had already adopted the Green Dragon and secured its secrecy. After all, what was away from King Hardland's eyes was away from his mind, and everything that ran rampant downtown could flourish freely.

"Ah, Doctor Glening very clever man to know where looking! Come, come, I show you in. I have customers, yes, but they be no bother to Master Georik," Gennai said, quick to grasp the gist of the physician's arrival as he emerged from behind the counter, holding a heavy bundle of rusty keys. He then took Georik by the shoulder, a fatherly shelter of strong muscles and his colourful silk robe as he ushered the physician deeper into the darkening vault of his trade.

Under Gennai's tutelage, Georik found himself led down a grimy flight of stairs, the distinctive bittersweet fragrance pervading his lungs even deeper with each step. Those stairs seemed the exact same as those of his own mansion or those hidden within the wall of Bruno's laboratory; they were all shrines to decay, that of bodies and the human mind, and Georik doubted this would be a more glamourous sight. "Thank you. If I may, I would like to take a sample home as well, for there are instruments I cannot carry with me," he pleaded, clutching his leather satchel as if to reassure the shopkeeper of his honest intentions. His usual way of working – from theory to practice – would not prove useful here; he would rather see the effect first and delve into the possible causes afterwards, in the sanctuary of his father's laboratory where he could carefully dissect his sample and recognize the agents behind the effects that they were claimed to produce.

It did not seem Gennai took offense, not at all; he was all wide smiles and encouraging nods as he halted his guest before the shabby door they had now arrived at. "Yes, of courses, take! I be suggesting you have a taste yourself, too. Man no learn from book alone," he advised cryptically, opening the door with an enthusiastic turn of keys, and it irked Georik slightly to hear that worn catchphrase that Bruno and seemingly a multitude of other scientists loved. After all his failed experiments with corpses and homunculi, the physician now become alchemist was himself starting to lose faith in it altogether.

"Your friend Gennai hear opium help the work of alchemist, yes? Say it bring great understanding of universe, calm mind and harmony. Alchemist know moderation, these fellows not. Be careful." Those were Gennai's preface as he parted the silk curtains still keeping the physician from the desolate sight he was now introduced to, and it made Georik even more certain of his decision. It was the sight of a battlefield that greeted his eyes; that in the light of a hundred small lanterns, shrouded in smoke sweeter than that of cannons and littered with a few bodies spread over lush pillows rather than soil. They were not men who toiled on the fields or in the factory, but men of wealth, slaves to the burgeoning society and its harsh demands; in all his disgust, the physician could not help feeling sympathy for the half-familiar faces staring numbly through contracted pupils in their catatonic state.

"If Master be needing help, he can finding me on the other side. Enjoy." With a wink and smile, Gennai disappeared through the beaded curtain, leaving the physician alone in the dragon's den before he had even recovered from the distasteful sight. Perhaps it was the alleged Oriental deference to a professional at work that kept him from nosing around, perhaps it was that the man would be occupied elsewhere; either way, Georik was more than happy he could work at his own pace, though he did wonder what Gennai had meant by opium helping the alchemist at work. It was common knowledge that alchemy and other dark arts flourished in the Far East, where they were part of everyday life and never frowned upon; Hardland, the puritanical hinterland striving for success through industrialization, was the exact opposite, and Georik made a mental note to pay a look at the books he had gotten on top of his last purchase from the Jewelled Den. Seeing Gennai's encouraging attitude now gave those strange gifts much more sense now.

Carefully arranging his instruments and his notebooks on the low table, he was for once grateful of the dull headache from yet another white night; the past few days spent in the palace and nights awake by the growing homunculus' side had given him little repose, of which most had been shattered catnaps plagued by Mephistopheles' lovesick sighs and caresses. Grown so accustomed to the pain of a racked brain and exhausted body, the physician would well see the potential curative effects of opium and report on them as accurately as only a doctor and patient in one could.

Once he had settled more conveniently than comfortably on the heap of silk pillows, Georik took his fountain pen and turned a clean page, writing an entry for  _Opium (Papaver somniferum)_. His knowledge of botany was extensive, though only in the scope of Hardland, and what little he knew of the poppy plant used for opium he had soon listed briefly underneath the title. The distinct characteristics of opioids could be clearly seen in the few lost souls within his sight; the effect on the nervous system was certain, yet the extent of it and the copious side effects he had been reported were still a mystery to him, vary as they did from man to man. He would have a long night ahead if he wanted to finish the case before Bruno's patience - and his own - ran thin...

His first observation was the unusual colour of the flame of the specially crafted lamp, indicating a temperature above the usual; one that could only be measured precisely in the depths of his laboratory. From a clear red, the heart of the flame had faded into a golden orange, the bright entrancing blaze that beckoned Georik closer; he was truly a moth to the flame as he watched its demure flicker in most delicious hues, captivated by the collective auto-da-fé of his recent memories dancing around the wick. His accursed hometown ablaze, his first batch of _Aqua Vitae_... and the perpetual, volcanic blaze of those eyes he remembered stripping him of his wits, undressing him with them, not here and now where he had almost expected them.

Ever since the masked ball, his thoughts had not once left the homunculus he had given life to, or Lillith, to whom such life was to be passed on. Yet some strange feeling had been brewing in the back of his mind, reminding him of certain arrangements between him and Francis Dashwood, driving him into pacing restlessly by the window after nightfall – all in vain, for there had been no visit or letter to suggest another 'transaction' be made. He should have been relieved to be able to watch the homunculus grow and finish his projects in the palace without any perturbation; yet something was amiss, and it could never mean well for him.

Had he played him for a fool, persuaded him into a godless pact – not that he did not know everything about those by now – for a mere test run, only to leave him in shame and ridicule? If it was a trap for Count Sandwich to unleash his bloodhounds and fulfil his threat of bringing the matter to court, Georik knew he could not get away unscathed.

Such thoughts, however, were distractions he did not need in his research, things to dismiss as Georik decided to follow Gennai's advice and turn his research entirely empirical. He glanced around for one last time, positive that there still was no police raid afoot; then he inhaled, not quite deeply at first, and fought back the desperate urge to cough and spit away the appalling taste burning his throat. The flavour and the fragrance were certainly of a different calibre, all to the latter's credit, and Georik held his breath until his observation was neatly lined on paper. Had he eaten anything since luncheon he would have cast everything on his painstaking groundwork, and even though the expression on Bruno's face upon seeing the mess would have been worth witnessing, he had to steel his stomach and breathe in a lungful of air.

With expiration came a promise of the effect he had been hearing much of; a slight jolt to the nerves superseding the acrid foretaste. There was the sweet, puzzlingly familiar flavour that tickled on his tongue and evoked nameless phantasms of his memories; opiates were after all widely used in medicine outside Hardland, and Georik was fairly sure that his childhood toothaches were all cured by drops of laudanum or the like his father had given him. Yet that could not be all; there was an element he knew better, something under his skin, and the memory made him shudder.

Was it just the sheer heavy fragrance getting into his head, or could he distinguish the faraway lilt of Dashwood's voice? Not quite the slick, salacious tune so often played to his ear, it was rather a low, distantly menacing whisper spoken without a hint of smirk – and he was not alone, but in conversation with yet another voice Georik could recognize.

He did not know if it was the opium speaking to him, or Mephistopheles, whom he had forbidden to appear outside of the mansion despite the tight leash he kept the demon in. Of course Gennai - that accent could not be mistaken - would never fraternise with someone like Dashwood; then again, how had he held himself in pride above the redhead, yet ending up in the despicable state of things that their association had borne? No, it most certainly could not be, he thought, returning to his own little sphere of smoke and syntheses that his unhurried hand was still producing on the paper.

Once accustomed to the flavour, Georik returned to his observations. With a practiced motion, he pressed two fingers against his wrist, quickly catching a pulse racing slightly above his usual: so first, a stimulant, expediting the circulation and respiration. If ever had Georik focused his hundred percent into a single detail – his mind, body and soul – it had felt something akin to this, save for the sudden weight in his head that was already promisingly fading out.

Yet the voices would sustain, only coming louder, and Georik strained his ears to hear whatever the seemingly unfair exchange was about. The only words that carried through to him were of the kind he knew far too well from dealing with Dashwood, which assured him that he was not hearing things. Those words were virtual threats, ones that involved inhuman sums of money and complete indifference should a most unfortunate accident befall the poor individual that was so unwilling to cooperate. The thought made Georik shudder in remembrance, and he felt a pang of guilt that somehow managed to pull him up from his decadent bed and wade through the sweltering smoke. It would not be beyond Dashwood to follow him, and if he had, it was now Georik's responsibility to shake the man off his tracks and leave the innocent Mr. Hiraga out of their private mess.

Once closer, hiding behind the curtain and peering upstairs, he saw what most certainly was a sack of money, one that left Gennai's reluctant hands and ended up in Dashwood's more than happy clutches, delivered with a bombardment of foreign curses. Only then would any sign of contentment appear on the redhead's face as he juggled the prize in his hand, the chink of coins seemingly loud enough for him as he pocketed his booty and stepped in to seal the deal with a mocking pat on the man's broad shoulder.

It eluded Georik completely how, despite the poor surprise factor in the matter, he managed such a sound of astonishment that the redhead would turn his head and incline his ear, yellow eyes narrowed like those of a bird of prey as he edged in to find the poor eavesdropper.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or do I have the pleasure of finding Count Zaberisk here?" It was both bestial and debonair how Dashwood, once aware of the physician's presence, locked on to his target and slowly approached him, arms beckoning but not quite as wide as for an embrace. It disquieted Georik far more than an otherwise unwelcome cordiality would; Dashwood's hands were like spiders, climbing up his arm or leg when least expected, making his every hair stand on edge and every inch of him crave for more of that delightful disturbance.

"You keep your hands off this gentleman! He too clever to fall for your tricks." Gennai made an apologetic bow in the physician's direction, dark eyes still narrowed to slits as he kept watch of his outrageous blackmailer, one hand securely clutching the handle of his peculiar sword. The beautiful carvings spoke more of an ornament than the weapon it was, yet Georik imagined the slightly curving blade with its single edge would cut well into the flesh of an attacker. Adept as he might be with a smaller knife, Dashwood would not stand a chance against a swordmaster - and there were two present.

Brushing off Dashwood's hands once they came too close, Georik cast him a condescending look and crossed his arms in defence. "What are you doing here, Dashwood? Other than threatening Mr. Hiraga, that is," he said chilly, wondering if there was one single corner downtown where the underworld's apparently infinite arm did not reach.

"My, such distrust! We, good sir, have struck gold; new in town, I reckoned this man needed help in the, say, practical matters with his business. For my small share of profits, I keep both the Jewelled Den and the Green Dragon under my protection." Thus was the tale of Francis Dashwood, patron saint of tradesmen and liar extraordinaire as he exchanged silencing looks with his obviously reluctant partner and received his tacit approval in the face of necessity. Georik did not know what to make of it; however off it seemed that the smart and honorable merchant from the Far East would have made a deal with a nefarious local black marketer, there was the decree of the dark arts to consider, and the streets were meaner than ever.

It was clearly not a story to Gennai's liking, and the man raised a finger in reproach, clicking his tongue. "You no try threatening him, boy! Master Zaberisk be good with his sword, and he no hesitate using it," he warned, a knowing smile flashing upon his lips as he looked at sapphire and amber eyes in turn. Nodding his thanks, Georik thought back to his friends cheering in the stands of the arena on that victorious day - and then to the night of the tournament, and the pains he had to withstand to claim his rightful prize.

He did not realize he was looking at Dashwood until the man bit his bottom lip, not quite stifling a chuckle. "As I have seen, my friend. It is indeed quite impressive. One would think that such a large weapon would compensate for a lack of skill, though." His words, slick as his carefully measuring look up and down the physician's imposing frame, thankfully passed by the foreigner; yet not even he could possibly be blind to the spark in Dashwood's eye, that bold and wicked smile that made up for what his carefully restrained hands lacked in lechery. It was truly a very expected choice of words and turn of events, and Georik found himself definitely unimpressed; he stared blankly at Dashwood, as if in absence of hard evidence, knowing exactly what lack of skill that sharp tongue was trying to compensate for but never bothering to word it.

Deprived of a witty retort, Dashwood sighed; the slightest of defeats revealed as he scratched his head, long black nails fisting luxurious heaps of crimson locks. "Oh, but now we're dawdling, gentlemen! Master Gennai, why don't you wrap up for today and let me look after the shop? I will close the shop from others and and make sure Master Zaberisk has everything he needs for his... private research," he suggested with a most unctuous voice, though its sharp undertones turned it into an absolute order to get the hell out and leave the two alone. However serene his mask, Gennai could not help those crackles of despisal as they shook his face and hand that reached to relinquish the keys of the den to his wicked associate.

"Then, I leave. Do take care, Doctor Zaberisk." He bowed, palms pressed together to honour the physician, yet the thorns in his voice were directed at Dashwood along with a smouldering glower from beneath dark thin eyebrows. His exquisite robes swirled in the dim light as he turned to leave, a flash of steel where his hand met his scabbard as the redhead practically kicked him out of the door and promptly double-locked it after him.

Silence fell with the chime of a windbell, deep enough to bring out the massive drum within Georik's chest as Dashwood turned around, a shameless parody of himself as he leant against the door in a blatant invitation. He parted his lips to speak, wetting them with a flick of tongue, but the physician was faster.

"Don't say a word, Dashwood. We both have a job to do, don't we?" Long fingers clasped the man's wrist before he could touch - so fragile he would not have to press hard to break him - in the sultry deadlock of the man's enticing gaze, kept at a respectable distance roughly as natural as two magnets forcibly driven apart. The pulse against his thumb was strong, yet quicker, flickering like the physician's train of thought as he finally let go, handcuffs turned into a clandestine handshake.

With a delightfully twisted grin, Dashwood descended into the sea of hazed light and tentacles of smoke, the crack of his knuckles more soothing than anything Georik had heard. The physician followed, paying no heed to the lost lambs now driven away as he sank back into the temptation of silk and knowledge, lips attuned to a higher purpose and the highly addictive flavour playing on his tongue, closing his eyes to the cage of reality until Dashwood's warm, husky whisper returned to sweep him back to the face of the earth.

"Now, do tell me, Master, what kind of a doctor does research in the middle of the night?"


	12. Chapter 12

In this twisted relation of relations, Georik would have liked to believe in mutual secrecy. It proved to be but idealistic folly, a slap in his face after all he had driven himself into, and he had a terrible hunch that he could no longer feed this despicable cur of a man with nothing but the truth.

"Night work is not the privilege of your kind, Dashwood," he said after a brief deliberation, aware of the laggard pace of his words as well as the waning taste on his tongue. So he had contemplated long enough to nearly reach the bottom of the bowl, the drab remains of his research far from complete; the want on his face must have been blatant enough to spark Dashwood into action and return to the physician's side with a fuller bowl.

"Such harsh words, Master dearest! This must be providence, then, don't you think? Unless you really came here just to stalk me, not that I would mind," he fancied as he threw himself down onto the silk mattress, resting on his elbow as he surveyed the physician with a keen eye and a patient smile. Despite how well the man blended with the sultry scenery - darkened corners laden with intoxication and depravity - Georik could not tear his eyes off the beautiful arc of Dashwood's body against the shimmery sheen of radiant hues, those long limbs stretched out and nimble fingers draping around the pipe he expertly brought from the heat of the lamp to his lips.

His breath emerged in silver pleasure, a veil torn apart by the wicked spark in his revenant gaze, and he handed the pipe back to physician. "If you must know, and I bet you do, I have undertaken these arrangements to fund a particular risky venture I undertook a while ago. You wouldn't happen to have a problem with it, would you, Master?" he inquired, providing a glimpse of white teeth seizing dark wood before his smirking lips draped them for another leisurely drag.

So that was Dashwood's common courtesy: a brief account for the physician's equally evasive explanation, and a carefully pungent one at that. The notion of the man scraping up enough money to cover the enormous debt of Count Zaberisk through this hellhole and its owner's pockets would have been of dry amusement in any other circumstances, but with Georik's own obligations in play, it drew him deep in thought. The first part had been paid off, and as the homunculus was maturing without complications, it was unlikely that he needed to immerse himself deeper in debt; yet Dashwood had made it apparent that Count Sandwich was not a man to be placated with a minor fee. His contract with Dashwood would persist, and perhaps today…

"Then why don't you concentrate on  _your_ duty, unless you have the qualifications to assist mine," Georik scoffed, turning from Dashwood who, suddenly morbidly intrigued by the confidential medical texts lying neglected on the table, simply smiled while closely surveying the physician's long inhale. This, Georik thought with an undertone of nostalgia, seemed quite like the tales his father used to tell him of the red-skinned people who lived across the ocean, people of several tribes at war gathered to pass a pipe of peace and thus stop the calamity. It was never open warfare with Dashwood, no; perhaps recurrent border skirmishes, but they were never enough to violate the peace treaty woven in straining silence.

"So professional, Master, just how I fancy you. May I?" Acquiring his own permission, Dashwood helped himself to Georik's papers left unguarded for a moment. His fingers caressed the leather binder in passing as they leafed through the physician's report, his eyes so keen and lips uncurving as he focused on a particularly technical term there and there – or tried to make of the physician's hasty handwriting. Yes, Georik would have to write a clean copy for Bruno's merciless scrutiny, remove the little footnotes and sprinkles of ash or one of the Royal Physician's successors might discover the horrible blemish in the history of Hardland's medical care that this illegal little endeavour was.

"My, this is exhaustive, as one would expect of the great Dr. Zaberisk. Though I do wonder why you should choose to overlook one particular virtue of opium." Dashwood's dark fingernails cast elongated shadows over the paper, pointing out the abundantly empty space left for said essential as he finally broke the illusory state of peace. There was little Georik despised more than those who questioned his expertise, notably when the man was one whose knowledge of anatomy and physiology was – albeit impressive, he recalled with unease – garnered by methods rather unprofessional unlike his own. In all his ire, however, he was curious to hear whatever the man would have come up with; if he did speak the truth about his alliance with Gennai, it was more than desirable he knew his merchandise well.

"And what is it that an experienced physician might have overlooked?" Georik asked, confronting yet puzzled as he thought back to his notes, unable to feel the initial stimulation any longer. His head felt light, as if free from all worry and pain if not indifferent to all around him, and his breath now came in slow puffs that had settled hand in hand with his heart rate. Certainly sedative and analgesic, opium had brought back the effortless strength in his body, the strange serenity, but what else was there to feel? His mind was lucid as ever - he tested it with some quick calculations – so at least he was not reduced to a rambling lunatic.

Dashwood, as ever, was happy to provide him with an answer; his hand crawled up and down the barricade of bolsters, claiming his hand that remained in a tight grip around the initialed fountain pen of his father. "Well, you know, it is not only the art of alchemists that opium enhances, but also that of loving. Or that's how rumour has it; alas, I am no alchemist myself," he chuckled, his lips lush and red around the pipe he now helped himself to, and Georik found himself strangely approving of the analogue between alchemy and intercourse. The two were essentially the same - couplings of opposing elements, chemical marriages opportunely consummated – constructions of the universe veiled in taboo. There were rules to obey - research should be done purely for its own sake, and it was with little remorse that Georik realized each was but a means to an end for him.

"Rumors are baseless assumptions until otherwise proven. I believe I told you my research was still in progress, Dashwood." Blurring the redhead's face in a cloud of thick smoke, he turned away – more in thought than any disagreeable reaction that a lesser man might have developed. He was well familiar with those old wives' tales about certain suspicious concoctions that could enhance male potency, prolong erection and, lastly, orgasm by a matter of hours even; yes, men often were creatures simple enough to believe such fallacy and act accordingly to their wives' exasperation. Respectable medical science had nothing to say to the matter, though it was a hushed fact that some substances did work as desired stimulants.

Following nothing but logic, Georik paid a curious thought to however opium might affect either body or heart, mind or soul, whatever part of man lust was supposed to dwell in other than flesh. The initial rush he had experienced was certainly related to the state of arousal, heat and heartbeat, perhaps, but what had followed... he would not know, for he had only known the urgency and the pain of waiting, the burn and the detonation that had driven him to sever that urge without delay. What inflated reputation opium had, if the sensual pleasure it gave could only be measured in the fleeting moments of improved circulation!

"I'd say the good doctor should see the rest for himself in the name of science."

Before Georik's lips even parted in a derisive counterattack, he found himself silenced by the redhead's tender fingertips. With little showmanship and even less hesitation, Dashwood kissed him, lips upside down prying his apart gently, soft and slow like death in slumber. It was ever the same time-halting theft of breath, the caducean union of tongues as he granted access to another. There was no unbridled passion but suspended rapture, steadily growing with each languorous twist of tongue and tentative venture of teeth until Georik came to the bitter conclusion that, perhaps, there was a grain of truth that needed to be found – that wanted to be found.

"And where exactly does that leave you?" he inquired, facing that fickle desire within, the tickle of Dashwood's beard unbearably delightful against his forehead. He would listen, and for once, not out of dire emergency but for the scholarly thrill of discovery - one that would bring him back to the darker side of their relation, the pact written in dark ink and the pale hues of passion.

"Well, I think fate has bequeathed us a wonderful opportunity, wouldn't you think, Master? Should the rumors prove true it would be my purse to benefit from the customers' delight… and in turn, it would be you."

Hot, thick words were whispered unto his open mouth; keen hands roaming down his chest to his tapering waist and heavy belts whose buckles were easily undone. Dashwood's touch all but burned through all that heavy velvet and leather, uncoiling each and every one of his muscles for come what may – the prurient promises loaded within such empty words, smoke and mirrors come true in flesh as he dove in yet another kiss, this time more demanding - just as the physician himself responded, pulling him closer until the walls of his universe closed in, a bittersweet return to hazed reality.

"Not _here_ , Dashwood." It was not denial but challenge; a strange sense of pride got to his head as he watched and wondered how it felt for Dashwood to be invited in for once, to be accepted without threats or slick words. Would it be a victory in its own, or would he laugh it off in disbelief?

He should have known Francis Dashwood well enough to predict that deep chuckle, the spark in his eyes darkened by the virtue of opium as the man withdrew his hand almost plaintively. Everything was to be on Count Zaberisk's own terms after all, and by trade and trait, the man delivered orders way better than he gave any.

"Well then, I shall hail us a cab that does not ask… unnecessary questions," he whispered, his warmth replaced by one last whiff of smoke as he arose, proffering his hand only to find the hastily gathered pile of Georik's folders stacked upon it. The physician got to his feet on his own, unaware of gravity until he reached the stairs and swayed heavily with each step towards the exit in Dashwood's wake.

Clashes of metal, wailing wood and chiming brass honoured him as he emerged into the pouring rain, supported by the arm by Dashwood. A sharp whistle broke the air; the street was empty, save for dark figures collapsed on the street or twisted in wanton poses against stone walls, yet soon a large shadow approached from behind the corner, closing in until the master of the shadow came in sight.

"That was suspiciously fast, Dashwood." Georik spoke curtly, staring numbly at the hearse-like one-horse carriage and its shady coachman, wreathed in tentacles of smog that tinted the skies of the nefarious districts.

"Well, I  _was_ planning to visit you later today, Master. It never hurts to be prepared, wouldn't you agree?" It was not until he had bent his head and clambered into the carriage that he registered the fleeting warmth of a hand on his rear, a not too subtle illustration to Dashwood's carefully selected words as always.

The coachman lashed his riding crop and the carriage started moving, creaky and reeking of death to the point where Georik believed his initial assumption was correct. Dusty velvet drapes carefully hid the  _trompe-l'oeil_ windows, and his sense of direction did not quite provide him with any clue of his whereabouts-to-be. If this was a trap to ensnare him and bring him at Count Sandwich's mercy, it was certainly a pathetic one at that; from what he had gathered, the count was not one for improvised kidnappings.

"Worry not, Master! This fellow won't tattle; he did once, and it cost him his tongue." Illustrative as ever, Dashwood flashed a nasty grin, seizing the tip of his tongue between his teeth. The feat of removing the strongest muscle of a man's body was not something Georik was familiar with first-hand, yet where he should have broken down in shivers of disgust as any sane person, he found himself merely concerned of the things he would be missing should such a thing befall the man he was heading home with.

"So I suppose I should be grateful that you still have yours," he said dryly, feeling the last of his doubts evaporate as his long legs touched the man's knees in the dark, cramped space between the benches. He was close enough for a knife's range, yet the only threat posed was the pressure of Dashwood's knuckles slowly measuring the length between his thighs.

"Why, thank you, Master," Dashwood chuckled, and gladly complied as the physician pulled him into his lap, showing no hesitation to test the resolve of the man's sworn silence.


	13. Chapter 13

It was known to all eyes in Kamazene that Georik Zaberisk was a new man after that one fateful day he had won the fencing tournament – and so much more.

He still lived by the toll of the bell upon which he packed his things in the laboratory, mounted his faithful Rabikan and set course towards home, some days stopping by the Royal Library or some of the shops in the old town. Why, he might even join his friend Captain Ramphet for a pint at the Rocking Boat – everything seemed in order for the junior Royal Physician, a model citizen in every aspect and a frequent topic of conversation among the lovesick ladies of the court.

Only then did another man come alive as the physician entered his subterranean laboratory, double-locked the door behind and spent the rest of the day by the life he had created – quite literally – in the palm of his hand. The homunculus was now a girl of six or seven years, big enough to end up enchained in the basement. She had long flaxen hair like Lillith, grey eyes large as teacups and skin pure as virgin snow; she was perfect, and a mere few weeks short of maturity. Until then, he was to live a double life: one with her, another in the court, but with the few breaths he took in between, he only thought of Francis Dashwood.

He had brought him home from the Green Dragon, under the guise of inebriation and curious belief in the claims he had whispered in his ear in the dead of the night - in the minutes he had promised to turn into hours of pleasure and beyond, words that had him forget everything else there and then, kisses in the dark so deep that he had forgotten just how they had made it inside unnoticed by Timothy – and how they had ever made it upstairs when every step of the staircase equaled so many stolen breaths and fierce strokes…

He had woken up next to the man, disoriented and disheveled, to a most pleasant languor in the first rays of noon. All of his mind-wracking pain had been but a distant memory in the hazy embrace of stained sheets and strong arms wound tight around his chest; warm and content, he had lain still, inhaling and exhaling in the steady rhythm of Dashwood's sleep, wondering what truth could possibly treat him this kindly.

He had remembered every little moan, every piece of furniture their actions knocked over, every single flick of tongue in the long and torturous procession down the length of his manhood to his backside and… He remembered every line of his body mapped as if by a student of anatomy that he once himself was, with surprising lucidity of all of his senses: the crystal clear sound of pleasure from Dashwood's throat as he ceased his racy narration in favour of quite another display, the taste of opium mingled with the many rich flavours of man, the heat in steady rise throughout the night in search of the ultimate melting point…

It had been a promise kept, more or less, and for that alone, he would let the man sleep a while longer.

He had got up slowly, carefully freeing himself from the redhead's embrace and bracing himself against the bedpost to stop the spinning in his head. A bird's-eye perspective of his bedroom revealed familiar garments all across the floor, emptied glasses of wine littered on every piece of furniture among scratches and stains. His body felt heavy and limp, better suited to lying down than trekking across the spacious bedroom to fetch a glass of water that he judged would be beneficial after a night of toxins and transgressions; yet he marched on, savouring the delicious weariness of his limbs as he reached for the glassy oasis on top of his writing desk.

As he stooped to pour himself a glass, his eyes caught sight of a leather folder on top of the desk, lying neatly closed but with a single page on top of it. The sun tinted the ink in dark red, as if blood but not quite, and the speckles of ink were rather fresh judging from the strong scent and the faint shade they imprinted on Georik's fingertips as he examined the paper.

It was his study on opiates, launched and concluded the day before, a perfect example of the triumph of science as it revealed perfectly neat lines in the precise form of an academic treatise: hypothesis, theory, empirical study and conclusion.

He would have turned the paper in to Bruno with great pride if it were not for the last lines written by another's hand. The two halves of the page were like night and day; the transition from Georik's shapely handwriting to Dashwood's left-handed miniature scribbles evident even without the tell-tale paragraphing. As for the content… it was as it should be, and absurdly enough, every hypothesis held true in the fresh memories that replayed in his head like the tune of a barrel organ. This, if anything, would best extol the virtues of opium in moderation – a concept unfamiliar to the archaic laws of Hardland that regarded everything in black and white, where a touch of the dark would paint the essential shade of gray everything was composed of in the end.

Hearing a soft rustle, he looked over his shoulder, only to see the redhead's slender figure twist and stretch under the crumpled sheets. He was still deep in slumber, going through a phase of dream, one that made his eyelids twitch in rapid motion; his face, too, contorted as if in pain and he jerked, fumbling pleading words under his breath against the mattress. Perhaps this was the unfortunate aftermath of opium, a dream within a dream; yet still Georik knew men did not suffer nightmares for no reason. His own demons were but one and with a name, but of Dashwood's, he knew nothing.

The physician in him now awake, Georik returned to the bedside, taking Dashwood's hand in his and lightly stroking his stubbly cheek moist with what he hoped was not tears. One should never forcibly wake up a man plagued by nightmares lest he be shocked and locked within his psyche for life; no, he would try and reach through the haze of nightmare, make his voice heard over whatever beasts were roaring in his dream.

"It's all right, Dashwood. I'm here," he whispered, kissing his forehead to smooth the pained wrinkles with his lips. Asleep, he looked almost innocent, stripped of that mask of iniquity and cloak of darkness; naked in the daylight, he was but a young man, bruised and beaten and bitten but nonetheless of perfect physique. Unable to hide behind his tough shell, he curled up like a frightened child or wounded animal, relaxing but slightly from Georik's soothing caresses. The words he whispered made little sense, save for the weak  _no_ that repeated itself until the physician came closer, holding him down like he would a hysteric to stop those terrible spasms of fright.

What would Dashwood say if he saw himself like this, pinned down and straddled, unbeknownst to how helpless he was yet how despicably appealing he lay to the physician's eyes? Would he know the desire that returned to haunt the physician through such visceral need to prey on such innocence? It was shameful, a flaw in nature's perfect engineering, for a human being to enjoy such domination over another; unable to quell his awakening desires, Georik could but wait until the man's resistance died and his breath evened out, the nightmare gone and replaced by another phase of sleep – one that animated his body in a way quite different than what had made him recoil.

Curious, Georik released his hold on the other's wrists to further explore his body, to trace his fingertips along the dark veins that lent his skin that beautiful olive tone. Dashwood's back arched in response, bringing his arousal to meet another of its kind, and the little  _Master_ that escaped his lips was too adorable to let go.

It was not enough to wake him up; he was smiling in his sleep, his body instinctively winding closer to Georik as the physician lay down with full weight, settling between wantonly sprawled legs. It felt odd to kiss Dashwood like this, to be the aggressor and suffer no counterattack save for a sleepy chuckle; was it the other side of the medal, the redhead recast as the victim of the scene he knew from the first night of their perverse pact? Why, he could no longer blame the man for enjoying such a moment for himself in those sorry circumstances – he had, after all redeemed himself, waiting for Georik to shatter his own pride instead of taking it.

Perhaps he should not have done so, after all; he could have had his way with the physician without restraint of any kind, leaving him with at least his pride and a desire for vengeance. As for now… he was not sure of either, but neither mattered in the still of time, in the bliss of solitary pleasures turning mutual as Dashwood finally came to, his fingers carded in the physician's tousled black hair and his lips prompt in their favourable response.

"Why, I must have died and gone to heaven. It's just as I imagined it." His eyes were hooded, his voice softened by slumber, but his body beneath Georik's was very much alert and awake. It was never night but morning that brought a man to his prime, and not even the nightlong exertion prior had managed to take the edge off. He seemed neither ashamed nor boastful of his state – even less so when he was not the sole party concerned, that which he undoubtedly knew as the last inches of distance between the two men were no more.

"If this is your idea of heaven, I am much less inclined to lead a virtuous life." Unable to conceal a smile, Georik licked his already dry lips, pondering his position and the involuntary shivers that he could not well associate with either him or the other as the two lay perfectly intertwined. He wanted reassurance that nightmares had given up on Dashwood; that he was not afraid of him or what his perturbed state evoked. He could not put an end to his nightmares or erase whatever horrible past experiences might lead him to endure such visions, but here, he would not be subject to his cravings without further cue.

Why, he certainly could count on Dashwood for one in this matter. "Is that so, Master? In that case," he heard the redhead whisper as he watched and  _felt_ the man guide his hands to where it mattered, "take me here and now, and ask permission later."

What his body recalled better than his mind now came back to him, in the sacred silence that caressed him; when Dashwood ceased his obscenities, all that remained was the quiet unison of two men in the throes of passion. Words had given way to deeds, thrusts that were slow and explorative at first but soon gained pace and force, encouraged by deep sighs and teasing little slaps on his behind. Burying himself to the hilt in incredible warmth, he held himself still despite the man's taunts and squirms, captive in those eyes in which he saw the city of Rome in flames, terror awash with the stark realization of desire.

Needless to say, he had not slept a wink since that near white night; he had not felt the need to lie down in the perfect state of disarray his house and mind were in. Spent, he had once more drifted off in the sweet afterglow, in Dashwood's needy embrace, only to awaken in an empty bed. Dashwood had gone without a warning, gathered all his belongings and made his great escape down the balcony, scattering rose petals all across the garden as he made his way through the rose bush that hosted his graceless landing.

The rational segment of Georik's brain had provided him with countless explanations as to why the man would have left on his own, with apparent hurry while he slept for what had been but an additional hour or so. Perhaps it had been Timothy knocking on his door despite being expressly told to stay downstairs with Lillith and the homunculus, or, what was even more likely, Dashwood had had to resume his life in the underworld. Despite all this and the sum of it, Georik could not help taking slight offense; he could have very well written a note, hinting when he would next make an appearance – hell, he had taken the large liberty of tampering with the physician's research notes, so what difference would helping himself to a piece of paper and some ink make?

His time was coming to an end – not only on earth, but also in the realm torn between his patience and that of Count Sandwich. He did not know how much of his debt was left since the receipt of his last installment that Dashwood had sent him weeks ago – and how much of the redhead's tales of his valiant efforts in drawing that extra profit from his opiate ventures held water. The moment Lillith took her first steps in her new body would mark the end of Georik Zaberisk, the relinquishing of his soul to Mephistopheles, and there were no guarantees that the debts of his house would not persist to fall on her little sister instead.

When had he forgotten his deal with Francis Dashwood, and willingly submitted to him for his personal gains and desires in the stead of his duty as a man and brother? When had he become like this – unable to concentrate on his work, something that would see no end despite how much he finished, and unable to filter out those thoughts that should not follow him to the outside world?

Once again, he had to put down his pen and breathe, take a hold on his desk to steady his trembling and paling hand before he could return to his reports without seeing stains of blood in the stead of ink. Of course, such behavior would not elude his hawk-eyed superior who, not until late in the afternoon, would bother to address the problem.

"You are working yourself to an early grave, love. Shall I check on you?" Bruno was suddenly standing next to him, rubbing his back with little mocking motions as Georik struggled to regain his composure, but things would not go smoothly as the Royal Physician's eyes sharpened upon the sight of something on his jaded subordinate.

"My, what's this? Something you are not telling me?" His voice pitched dangerously high in twisted delight as he leant in to inspect Georik's neck with cold, cadaverous fingers that chilled him to the spine. This was, after all, Bruno Glening, the man who could define the exact composition of one's blood by a mere drop on the tip of his tongue; it was sadly no wonder he would spot a nasty bite of love on Georik's paler-than-white complexion, hide it as he might behind his collar. Should the man suddenly feel like conducting a proper medical examination, God forbid, he would not be pleased to find a fine set of marks strewn all across Georik's body despite all the care and piety he had been treated through that one night.

"Just an accident with one of my instruments. Nothing to be worried about." Turning his head away, Georik returned to his formulas, fighting the urge to strangle the physician to cut the obnoxious current of breath in his neck. It was a hasty lie albeit delivered with cold confidence; the former Royal Physician accidentally hitting himself with a test tube was roughly as believable as his best friend Mikhail missing a mass, but it was all he could go by.

"Instruments, hmm? You have been a busy boy, I see," Bruno crooned after a brief silence, tracing the barely visible teeth marks with his fingernail – a shape ridiculously deformed for any object that a physician might wield. Struggling to hide any trace of emotion that might break his façade, Georik stayed still, raising but an eyebrow in protest; was Bruno truly so shocked upon a single bruise, where the skin of his homunculi was covered in dozens without any external cause?

"However, please bear in mind that you are an example to the citizens of Kamazene, and not expected to advocate such a wanton style of life. I trust you are aware of the hideous venereal diseases afoot, no?" Cradling his chin in the palm of his hand, Bruno repeated his question in a hum, feigning a smile as a sage teacher would in front of a very daft pupil. He had seen fit to sermon the junior physician about various commutable diseases upon his arrival from the countryside, and now he felt best to teach him about the perils of the city as if it were Sodom itself; why, the Royal Physician was certainly taking his work seriously, and the thought of letting him know exactly what kind of a man he was frivoling with filled Georik with malicious pleasure. Why, if Bruno knew to how many men and women his faithful little slave had made intimate contact indirectly, he would not hesitate to burn down the whole palace to disinfect every corner and pebble!

He thought back to Dashwood, memorizing his body as if there was no other truth to the human form. He should have noticed any symptoms of such diseases, and all he remembered was the beckoning sheen of sweat, the throb of dark thick veins, skin scarred and bruised but a splendid improvement from the last time he had seen the full extent of his so-called occupational hazards. If not now… his vows would have him take heed next time, see to it that no such thing befell the man to whom he belonged, in both estate and ecstasy, of which he no longer knew what governed his mind more.

To the physician himself, any ailment would matter just as little as in the eyes of Mephistopheles; the demon would make sure Georik kept his end of the deal, in the throes of death or even worse – he would restore Lillith's health at the expense of his own, if that was to be.

"I am well aware and perfectly clean, thank you. Also, I would prefer to keep my personal life to myself." He purposely avoided the unnerving stare of blue and yellow eyes as he returned to his research, as much as such cowardice watered down his strong words. So all of a sudden he had a  _personal life_ , one that did not entail his profession or his obligations towards the last of his family! Well, there was always a first time… if only in the intoxicated make-believe where his and Dashwood's needs and limbs intertwined in the most inopportune of times.

"Suit yourself." Not even that was enough to ruin Bruno's mood; apparently contemplating his subordinate's both academic and amorous pursuits was enough to keep him cheerily humming to himself as he arranged his desk and gathered his notes. It was that time of the day – or, rather, evening – when he would retire to his subterranean laboratory and sit by his beloved children, watching them float in their little tanks. That was Georik's cue to pack up and call it a day, which he did with trembling hands and such haste that he all but collided into his superior, who stood by the laboratory door as if Saint Peter himself upon the gates of Heaven.

"Oh, there was a letter for you, Georik dear. No, I did not read it; that would be terribly rude, wouldn't it?" Hiding his hands behind his back to hide what he had conjured as if from thin air rather than his neat piles of documents, Bruno graced his subordinate with one last infuriating smirk as the man nearly swooped down on him and claimed the letter. It burned in Georik's hands like the Royal Physician's mismatched eyes as they bid him farewell, but for the sake of secrecy, he suffered the heavy weight of an impending message until he made it to the wrought iron gate of his mansion.

Not giving Timothy a chance of reproaching him for arriving late, he stormed up to his bedroom and locked the door for good measure. Only then could he tear open the blank, thick envelope and fish out a bundle of letters. The top letter, a personal note from Dashwood, had been folded to cover a single card bearing the seal of Count Sandwich. The heraldry of ancient mariners spoke of urgency, and without further inquiry into the other documents, Georik took the card; finding no watermarks or other encrypted messages, he read the words again and again, unable to imagine himself free of the queasy feeling that devoured him by the letter.

_Dearest Count Georik Zaberisk,_

_We, John Montague Sandwich, have deemed Your character most noble and reliable in splendidly repaying your financial liabilities in good time. Thus, we humbly invite You to participate in the Black Sabbath of the Hell-Fire Club, by recommendation of our member Francis Dashwood. It would do us great pleasure to enjoy the company of the son of our dearest departed friend, Your father Wolfgang Zaberisk, to honour his memory._

_R.S.V.P._

_Yours faithfully,_

_John Montague Sandwich_

"What do you gather from this, Mephistopheles?" Addressing the perpetual horned shadow behind him, Georik wearily closed his eyes in thought, turning the invitation in his hands like a tarot card bearing ill fortune. He certainly was not blessed with trustworthy advisors, yet elementary logic suggested a demon would know of his faithful followers.

"The Black Sabbath? Surely thou jest, Lord Zaberisk." Mephistopheles' voice thundered in the room as he materialized, his black lips twisted in contempt as he hovered over his master's shoulder to read the letter. It was horribly amusing how his blood-curdling presence had shrunk to that of the curious bastard of a pest and pet, an oversized bat on his shoulder sighing in his ear; why, how his mind would lapse to imagine another dark-nailed creature of darkness in the demon's stead, the touch of flesh and feel of blood so much more than the apparition from one's deepest nightmares…

The cover letter he had previously ignored was Dashwood's handwriting, unwavering and with ostentatious flourishes; once unfolded, the letter gave off a familiar scent of days past, faint yet strong enough to disturb the stable beat of his heart. Inhaling, the physician closed his weary eyes, recalling the curious weight upon his back - his body used as a writing desk in the midst of his thorough research, Dashwood's hand that would stray to trace large letters on skin rather than on the document he had undertaken as the physician's devoted assistant…

Brushing off Mephistopheles' obvious disapproval of such sentimentality, he returned to the actual content of the letter, biting his lip to cut the bitter smile brought forth by what was but a few select words.

_Master,_

_Where good boys go to heaven, bad boys go wherever they please._

_I will come to collect your favourable reply tomorrow night. You've done great this far._

_Ever yours,_

_D_

Enclosed, there was still a third document, and one look would suffice to tell it was another receipt of an installment even larger than the previous. He did not need to know whether it was true money – shiny, heavy gold – or Zech painted in blood, or anything in between, for it was all he could count on. Evidence in court if needed, yet most of all, proof that he had not imagined everything; that Dashwood had lent him a helping hand and he had accepted, unbeknownst to the depths such an expression would reach in the course of a long, dreary season of spring.

"Thou dost take heed, Lord Zaberisk. Thy infatuation and despair doth blind thee to the wiles of these men." It was not the demon's split tongue tickling his ear in a vile whisper, but a particular word used by him that made Georik flinch; why, had he not chosen his master for his splendidly ripening soul, one free from such flaws of humanity? Infatuation – temporary love or admiration, foolish to a fault – it had been the downfall of many men, but not of Georik Zaberisk.

"Is that not why I have you with me? I say we go, Mephistopheles, if only to see the look on their faces upon seeing their Dark Lord brought as a guest of honour." Dressing his distaste in a graceful smile, Georik stood up to face his demon, making a display for his reassurance by setting Dashwood's personal letter aflame. He did not need a piece of paper to remember, to wait for his messenger in the dead of the night; he would go and join the Hell-Fire Club, trap as it might be. It was his only chance to find out who was the man behind everything and everyone; his father, the fate of House Zaberisk and future of little Lillith, the dark empire underground... and, even more than he cared for, Francis Dashwood.


	14. Chapter 14

Francis Dashwood had never quite cared for high ambitions. It had never been his birthright to do so, yet he had never strived to turn his sorry fate upside down; he lived for the moment, the opportunity - small simple things that so easily branded a man when exceeding the limits of moderation. That was not to say he did not have plans: indeed, he had quite a few in the works.

Out of these plans, Master was indeed his masterpiece. Why, those plans had certainly been rewritten and worked a few times... and oh, how he had enjoyed every second of it. It all started with Master's father's will, hidden in the Zaberisk mansion by request of the kind but sad man locked up in the Count's exclusive cell – something he could have very well snatched for himself, but somehow fate and conscience had led him to fulfil this man's dying wish. Next, he had run his master's errands, hell-bent on collecting every last Zech of the family fortune... and, hell, there were things he would never have expected to do were it not for the man that Fate had seen fit to send his way.

He had opened the door; he, the snotty scion of the Zaberisk family, a student of medicine and fencing champion for nine consecutive years. He had looked down upon the young man thirsting after his money and kindly told him to never show his face again, thinking it would be the last he saw of some unimportant debt collector as he closed the door in his face.

That very moment Francis Dashwood had set himself an entirely new goal – to get Count Georik Zaberisk all for himself, in a way or another. It was a sum of many wicked things that caught his attention and captured his heart; why, young Master was certainly the most striking man he had ever seen, with shards of sapphire as eyes and hair like raven silk. It was his brooding elegance, his aristocratic manner displaying little care for other men that got to him; he might have been attractive as that, but what Master's father had whispered to Dashwood in his dying hour suggested there was more to it in Georik Zaberisk.

Why, he was undoubtedly a good boy, and Dashwood knew perfectly well what would become of those boys. He certainly had it coming – his Master was on the verge of strangling that good boy within him for good, and it was all Dashwood's doing.

"Put your hand on the book and swear the oath, and you will be one of us." It had been ten long years, yet the nausea still took over him with his old master's words that thundered in the dark cathedral. The masses had been silenced, the torches were lit, and the light descended upon Georik Zaberisk – the man knelt for the deviants' delight. So beautiful, he held his head up with pride and caressed the old leather book with a hand just as gentle as it was firm. The smell of fear was dead; he was pure, innocent, trapped inside these grimy walls that Dashwood had desperately tried to keep from falling on him.

He did not want this; he wanted Master to run fast, sail away with the tide and leave this hell behind him. He had heard of a land far away where the dead were revived and where men lived forever – Master could take his little sister there and start a new life, one without that immense debt on his shoulders and these hounds of hell at his heels. If the circumstances were any different perhaps he could join them as well... show Master how he would gladly serve him to the end of days only to stay by his side.

Yet it was him who had guided him through the forbidden maze underground, him who had buttered things up for the Count himself, him who had foolishly thought this was the only way to save the man he secretly loved more than life itself.

Master's voice was more grim, his words more gravelly than those of the Count; yet to Dashwood, they were a threat in itself, charismatic enough to overthrow Sandwich once and for all – if it were not for the understanding they lacked completely. Perhaps it was his father, the kind and wise Wolfgang Zaberisk, whose name he saw in the black book of the brotherhood, beckoning him to follow in his footsteps to mute the voice of instinct; or perhaps it was his impeccable wit and logic that convinced him of the benefits of this arrangement. There was no dispute of whether Master had thought this through – he always did, perhaps too much.

This was the part that truly sank his heart and brought tears to his eyes: the part where Master's conviction was to be tested. He had made it splendidly through the test of the pentacle, shattering the jar of insects onto the stone floor – a solution unheard of in the history of the Hell-Fire Club, and something only his Master could think of in his brilliance - but when the Count claimed Master Georik's lips in a Judas' kiss, making him swallow the bitter liquid that would render him incapable of saving himself from the ordeals to come, Dashwood bit his tongue to replace the horrible taste of bile with his own blood.

In Master's eyes he saw the horror, the reflection of an entire congregation in black as they watched yet another brother fall. After the trial, the true initiation would begin – and in this brotherhood it was not merely blood that was to be shared.

He had tried his utmost to stealthily indoctrinate Master in the ways of carnal pleasure, yet nothing he had ever done could have prepared him for this... brutality. He had also tried his utmost to bury the memory of his own initiation, yet everything came back to him in waves as he stood, unable to halt the sacred ritual. The Count was of slender build, but oh, he would make up for it between his legs – and hell, how it burned, how it tore and seared and mutilated and it would not stop until the last of flames faded along with the boy's consciousness so many years ago he thought he would not even remember.

Several pairs of arms clad in black came upon Master, desiring their little share of his pristine skin as they pushed him down on the floor. They disrobed him of his red jacket, paying no heed to the expensive buttons and cufflinks – the bastards, not knowing the value of what was but a fraction of the silky skin now bathed in a layer of cold sweat. They sheltered his fall from grace as the Count braced himself to do the honours, to relish in the body that now belonged to him in name and honour and debt, his crimson nails twitching in bloodlust against Master's pale cheek.

His filthy tongue slithered down Master's neck, cold and greedy, unbeknownst to the encouraging sighs a gentler touch could draw forth; neither did he care to take a detour of delight to caress Master's less known but equally sensitive and needy spots or to stop to listen to the laboured breathing. The man that been Dashwood's whole world knew not how to appreciate, how to savour and respect – he used and took, toyed with his prey until he was satisfied to the extent of boredom. Yet it was Dashwood who had seen the burning desire on Master's contorted face, felt his judgement in the large hand that fisted and twisted his red curls to keep him in place – this was not that bliss, but far from it, the Count's rotten little mouth now leeching on to between Master's legs and drawing forth nothing but shocked gasps and shivers.

Dashwood had never been so disgusted in his life, and hell, that was much said.

It was vile and wrong, yet he could not deny the unspeakable; no matter how it hurt, he could not turn his eyes away from his beautiful Master. It sickened him how hard Master's pain and humiliation was making him – like a second witnessing a duel, anxious to fill in should his lord be found wanting – and the thought of everyone else in this dark cathedral, watching the same spectacle and heaving in the same foul lust, made him wish for a swift castration.

No longer could he watch his Master's humiliation; his hands shook in terror as he pushed his way through the throng of his wicked comrades, and they ceded, knowing his position in the brotherhood even through his thick robe that hid all save for the crimson tip of his chin. He saw no further than his own feet, shuffling across the cold stone floor spattered with stains of all kinds of wrong, and he cared not; all he could think of was his Master, drugged but conscious to feel every touch and thrust in his aching bones, powerless and unable to reject the new memory painted in blood. If there was even the slightest shred of clarity, one of recognition and reassurance in between the Count's carnal whims, Dashwood wanted to do what he could – to show his Master that he would not be alone in his agony.

He would not get in the way of Sandwich's pleasure, no; should he get too close or desire too big a share it would mean trouble even worse and not only for himself. So there he knelt behind the one true Master of his heart, casting his hooded shadow over Master's pained face and sinking his hands in his tangled hair. His fingertips worked in the scalp to soothe at least a fraction of the horrible pain, to show a flash of mercy where violent lust ravaged Master's body, stripping it of its sovereignty. Master was neither the first nor the last in such iniquity, no, yet he was one of a kind – something Dashwood had felt since their first encounter, and something his wicked lord had discovered as well.

"It's all right, Master. It'll be over soon, and I'll make up for everything," he whispered, his eyes brimming with tears that fell like rain in his Master's beautiful, silky hair. How he wanted to brush and caress those sultry locks, wash and dry them to see his Master in a whole new light; that of water and air, free from the confines of these silent stone walls, in silent and private landscapes Dashwood had only dreamed of. Yes, his Master should have everyone kneel at his feet, to revere his long shapely calves and cleanse his blood red boots of the filth of nobodies – but not like this, a sacrificial lamb laid before these foul beasts.

It was blood his former master wanted, and blood he would have – and the worst crime of all was that with however great pleasure his faithful Agathion would slit his throat to quell such thirst and to save the man he loved, it was not in the fashion of Count Sandwich.

Yet his Master was strong, much stronger than him and his silent tears and lips sewn shut, and the flash of recognition and utter contempt in his eyes became a promise of survival that Dashwood would hold on to, hold on to like his Master's head as Count Sandwich finished, in the shadow of a thousand weeping candles and shadows of death.

* * *

Red-eyed, he had escorted his Master back home after he had come to and drank a toast with the Count. He had offered him his hand, his shoulder to lean on, but Master was too proud, too shaken to share his walk of shame with one who saw him through. They had not exchanged a word, let alone a look; Dashwood had followed him like a shadow to the servants' shower, silently offering his help only to be rejected as Master undressed himself, exposing shivering skin that already bore the faint marks of what would be but the beginning.

Master closed his eyes as he stood under the shower, letting the cold water pelt down on his heated skin and wash off the stares of men and women who had beheld his utter humiliation. Dashwood watched him as he gathered his tangled black hair upon his head to expose the beautiful length of his neck, the slight curve of his spine; the two symmetrical bruises that he had seen once before still adorned his back, and knowing them not to be his own doing, Dashwood held his stomach to stop it from turning in imagination of what might have caused them if not this Satan's spectacle he had been forced to witness.

"Master... I am sorry to have dragged you into this hell."

 _Sorry?_ The sting of it was worse than that of the salty tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, hidden in the shadow where he stood, too afraid to look at his master. Putrefaction had given way to the faint powdery scent of roses and musk, drops of water dancing through a veil of steam until he heard the screech of the shower being shut.

Master's hand was so cold, so wet and slippery strong as it struck hard and fast, strangling him. A sudden rush of pain, it was nothing compared to the man's eyes – blue diamonds cutting through the corroded iron of his will.

"I am not your master, never was and never will be!"

Such a vehement downpour of words from Georik's lips, so close to Dashwood's that a gold coin would stay firm between them, yet a kiss by mistake would mean death in an instant. Master was livid, and despite how damn attractive he remained even thus if not more, Dashwood knew better than to push the limits.

"My name is Georik Zaberisk, and for someone so deeply involved with me, you'd better learn it."

He had never seen Master Georik like this, and it was all his doing. There was a part of him – or two – that could not sense the danger but remained transfixed in his wicked charm, enamoured of the willpower this man manifested with every breath he failed in taking. He could by no means bring himself to protest or resist those forceful hands as they pinned down his wrists and trapped him between stone and flesh, both unyielding and poised for violence.

He braced himself against the wall, unable to hold back neither his tears nor his feelings for this man who wanted vengeance. He knew the score all too well, for it was imprinted on his body and woven across his heart: it hurt as it always would, and the pain tore at his lungs as he swallowed it to stay just as quiet as his master was in his wrath.

He closed his eyes, bit his lip until he tasted blood, and his surprise was great when the pain of being forcibly taken or beaten would not come. This was not Count Sandwich taking his twisted pleasure – it was still Georik Zaberisk, the man he had learned to know little by little, and the devil in his eyes had fled to give way to the man. His hands were rough on his bare skin, yes – yet they were thus in a way of a physician, palpating his ribs where a fresh set of bruises littered rough skin. Oh, so he was at it again, playing doctor when most unbidden; and here he had thought Master was still under the influence of the Count's viciously tenacious aphrodisiacs, in great pain but nonetheless desiring flesh until breathless...

Only then did he wish he had served the other purpose instead when he saw the shock in Master's eyes and the sight that caused them. He had been careless; his bracer had slid from its place from the force of Master's grip, exposing the secret of his wrists as a terrifying secret to even him who had caused them and ignored them for the long years of his adulthood.

He had worn his other scars with pride – yet these were the ones he had desperately tried to hide, those caused by his own hand in his darkest hours. Time had taken some of their sheen and depth, but the sign was clear – that of a knife wielded to slash his wrists. He no longer even remembered when or why – perhaps after a heavy dose of something to relieve his pains just enough to endure them for the while that he put an end to it all - but it had been Cantarella to witness his unsuccessful attempt and reproach him hard enough to make him believe that he was not worthy of any peaceful rest.

Needless to say, it had been before he had met Master – and all those days spent under the beautiful, burning sun that was his Master would now crumble to dust that he knew just how weak and useless a mere man named Francis Dashwood truly was.

"And here I thought you were more adept with a knife than this. So what is it that kept you from cutting all these years after? Your most graceful master that I, too, will see in his full mercy?" He nearly choked in his words, cold hatred rushing in with each word in perfect contrast to the almost gentle touch of his fingers painting the lines of those hideous scars. It would come as no surprise should Master seem fit to show him how it was done, how to make that perfect cut or how to make a man struggle for hours or days in loss of blood. Why, it was only right that Dashwood should garner the same bruises and aches that he had caused; Master's body no longer felt pure and perfect as it had been that morning when he first had given himself to the man he thought wanted more than just a moment's ecstasy.

"I can't watch this anymore, Dashwood. Be it money or my blade, but I will remove this man from your life." Master let go with disgust and contempt; no more would he look at him, yet Dashwood could not tear his sore eyes off the grievous evidence even water and soap could not wash away. Master had taken a towel and dried himself with it – newly conscious of his naked form, ashamed like Adam – and he turned his back to the mirror as he dressed himself. He donned a lush velvet dressing gown embellished with the coat of arms assumed by the Zaberisk family – that tail-eating snake that Master had in his cufflinks and, if Dashwood recalled correctly, in his father's will that still slept in the trick drawer of the basement. That, too... What was left of the cursed family than this man, his Master, whose life was already in ruins without him interfering?

"Master, please… don't do this." Dashwood begged, his knees buckling, pleading with the miserable reflection of himself in the puddle on the ground as he listened to the sound of heavy footsteps leaving the room. Master's threats were not to be taken lightly, least of all this kind; the dark aura around him had grown dense again, and despite all, Dashwood found it very disquieting. He followed that sinister light, blindly and hastily, finding Master in the adjacent room with a glass of spirits in his hand. After all he had been forced to drink and swallow during the long, dreadful night, he would still crave another poison – one of habit, of comfort, and who else knew better of such things than the man who had grew up with the taste of the forbidden on his tongue?

"I will if you're not man enough to do it yourself." Unable to see through his veil of tears what Master added in his glass, Dashwood caught his eyes straying to take in the indescribable expression on his face as he looked straight into the redhead's eye – no longer between icy and murderous, but drained of all the strength and wisdom they shone. Master brought the glass to his lips and drank, or, rather, tried; his hand was trembling, his cheeks pale but aglow with sweat, and it took a painful amount of willpower for Dashwood to kneel down at his feet and serve his master without the addition of his own tears.

"I can't let you do that, Master. Now that you are in his inner circle and swear allegiance, he will strike your name from the Blacklist and let you do your thing. Please, just bear with me for a while longer and stay on his good side until we are done." He made no attempt to conceal the urgency of his voice this time; no longer would he speak of the Hell-Fire Club as if it was merely a bad name for the harmless games of bored aristocrats. He knew the Count was not famous for keeping his word, not at all, but at least his connections to the Blacklist were so tight and true that he would want to keep his associates away from the clutches of the high inquisitors. They, too, were a threat not to be taken lightly.

"A while longer? To watch that monster treat you like that? Now that I know where all your wounds and bruises come from, I don't think I shall." Master truly made it sound like he cared – if only marginally, under the guise of the oath he had sworn as a young prodigy, truly his father's son. Yet he did not know half of it; he had been barely conscious in the end of the ritual where the Count had ended the Black Mass with a human sacrifice, and being member of the cult required no less than pain upon pain from instruments foreign to the imagination of a decent human being.

"That monster raised me, Master Georik. We are not that different in the end, with the exception that he is everything I could never be." Like father, like child, and the only father he ever had was this beautiful, hideous man; king of the hill, smiling as if the ordeals of the Zaberisk family were but another dramatic play arranged for his exquisite pleasure. It was the vile, unadulterated truth, and Dashwood had never hated himself more for being the half-rotten apple that fell from the crooked tree.

"Alas, Dashwood." His voice thin and weary, Master rolled the name on his tongue, a sudden gentleness shrouding the icy blue of his eyes as he reached out to Dashwood with a hand no longer cold as death. It could not possibly be just a hint of a sympathetic smile on his face, no; the pulse of Master's fingers was getting faster, his touch hotter, and the bouts of cold sweat were more than enough to show Dashwood what he remembered more vividly than necessary. He made an effort not to follow the contours of Master's body, for he could sense the painful spell that the Count had cast on Master Georik with the drug used in the initiation rite – more than a harmless aphrodisiac, one of the many poisons made exclusively for the self-proclaimed right hand of the Devil himself.

"Not that different in the end, hmm? Is this not what you wanted, to have me at your mercy so you can play the knight in shining armour?"

Here, he felt the dark shadows rise again with Master's words, saw them create horns and wings in the corners of his mind; the madness in his Master's eyes would flash and blink like a struggling candle, and he would shift in clear discomfort, his hand instinctively nearing his lap. The thick robe would conceal the blushed, throbbing need only half restrained, but Master was making it very clear how he felt and what would be the logical response.

To think he would turn down his most desirable Master this way, to refuse what his body craved and what his weary mind would not condone… it was irony at its finest, a form of art even Dashwood could read and appreciate. It had been so long since he had had Master for himself, so long since he had  _not_ desired and needed anyone so much, yet for once he had the heart to deny the man out of nothing but the painful truth.

"You need to rest, Master. What he gave you is a powerful drug that keeps you… excited for a long time, but you will only feel worse if you don't rest instead. Trust me on this one." He licked his dry lips and looked away, ashamed, gently guiding Master's hand away from the core of his agony. Master had hurt enough, and he would hurt despite whatever Dashwood might do to; if he could only just pass out and sleep this once, dead to the world until he had regained his strength to carry on with the artificial human body he was designing for his little sister, Dashwood could for once believe he had done something right.

"I will operate on Lillith in two weeks. I will only put up with this nightmare until the time she wakes up in her new body. If we are not done with the debt by then…"

There was no threat in that voice, just  _surrender_ , and despite the agony of seeing Master in physical pain, this was the final blow that shattered Dashwood's heart completely. This was not the man he had fallen for, not the Georik Zaberisk he knew and swore to follow – this was a man enchained, a man tired of this world, and something told Dashwood it was not only the recent events that had made him so.

"You are one last part of the principal plus interest short, no more. I swear we will make it in time, Master, so you will only have your sweet little princess to worry about." Or that was how he would imagine it in a just world, one where men like Count Sandwich were locked up and deemed guilty instead of grand, one in which he foolishly thought he could still recreate. He had managed to talk the count into signing the documents he had prepared, and he had had him count every single Zech he had gathered from places he would never mention; there was most probably a catch to it all, something the count's satisfied smile would conceal, something that would turn the red sealing wax into blood when the time was ripe for the scam to unveil itself.

"It seems your word is the best I can have." Those words, said more matter-of-factly than with disappointment, left Master's lips with a wavering sigh and disappeared in the direction of his averted gaze. Dashwood was mere air to him, and it hurt more than any of Master's harsher words or grips; what good were such words to him, repeated like those of an exotic bird chained to his master's shoulder?

He chanced a touch, one on neutral ground up Master's arm, holding on in sudden fear that ate up the warmth of his words. "You are strong, Master. Most of the men who get as far as the Black Mass do not make it out alive," he whispered, knowing this to be the last thing Master wanted to hear tonight – even though it was almost morning – and knowing he was no longer needed before next Mass.

There it was, one last time – the spark in Master's eyes, the warmth as he gazed at him again with the slightest jerk of the corner of his mouth.

"Lucky bastards."

Once tacitly driven out of the mansion, Dashwood slumped to the floor, blinded by the scalding tears that would not stop. What pleasure he had learned to derive from pain shattered completely underneath the leaden agony of good intentions turned into capital offence. He loved Georik Zaberisk, loved him more than this miserable life, but in the end he had become nothing more than a caricature of his infernal master.

He would have to end it before Master did anything foolish – foolish being a word he would never use of the man, but something that his actions would imminently turn into should Dashwood not interfere. He would do everything in his power to gather the rest of Master's debt and repay it, down to every Zech and beyond to cater for the interest rates that only the Count's love for himself would match in height. He would sell every bit of his fortune if he had any; offer his heart, body and soul for the one he loved – even in vain, if only to show that he _tried_.

A pity Francis Dashwood was, in the end, not worth a damn.


End file.
